The Game Is On
by Yesilian
Summary: It's amazing the things you forget in two years. After Sherlock's return from the dead, a naturally naked Skype video call reminds John of the things that happened before the fall and that he had tried hard to put to rest. Their relationship told in snippets over the course of five years.
1. Before the fall: 2010 - 2011

A/N

This is very spoilery for S3 and as I won't go too deep into what is going on in the series, I must assume that you know the storyline intimately. Furthermore, the timeline I follow here is what I believe is the real one, meaning we go into the future. For this story, I assume Sherlock and John first lived together from January 2010 to June 2011, Sherlock came back in November 2013, John got married in May 2014 not 2013 (and not August, I don't know what goes on on his official blog) and the events of HLV take part in December 2014. I know some people think it's one year earlier, but I am not one of them. Sorry ;)

I've written all four chapters of this story, so it will be posted. I'm in the editing process of the rest. I hope to be able to release one chapter every week.

**Before the fall: 2010-2011**

December 2013

"Oh dear God, I actually forgot you did that!" John was laughing despite the bare-chested man on the screen of his laptop. He dropped his tone of voice and mimicked himself and still laughing said, "Sherlock Holmes, go and put on a shirt!"

The man on the other side of the Skype chat didn't laugh along, but his lips twitched a little and his eyes were gleaming mischievously.

"No," Sherlock answered and sported his best pout and tilted his chin up for good measure. John laughed a little more.

"Christ, I missed this," he said. He sighed, not able, not willing, to hide his deep contentment.

March 2010

Sherlock Holmes slept naked. When John thought about it, which he really tried not to do (too often), it was quite obvious. A man who was impeccably dressed when he went out and could barely be bothered to put on clothes that didn't fall apart at the seams when at home, of course slept naked. For the first month or two of their shared living arrangements he held himself back and always made sure to throw something onto his lithe form when he left his room. John wanted to believe it was for his sake and because Sherlock was trying to not make his new flatmate uncomfortable. No, he was saving that for later in their relationship.

But in the end John thought it might not have been so much out of consideration for him as out of consideration for the season. It had been winter, and it was a cold one that year. Sherlock made allowances for sub-zero degrees.

So, the first time John had seen his new flatmate naked was in March when the temperature had picked up and he was taking a shower one morning. Or, more precisely, preparing to take a shower one morning. He had already stripped down to just his pants, when the door that connected Sherlock's bedroom to the bathroom was opened and his tousled, very sleepy and puffy-eyed and very, very naked flatmate suddenly stood before him in all his alabaster glory.

John was in fact used to the naked form and not so much embarrassed even though he felt somewhat uncomfortable at first. That feeling dissolved almost immediately when he noticed the look of utter confusion on Sherlock's face. When you live with a man who knows what you had dreamt about the night before just by looking at the creases in your pyjama bottoms and then you see the same man practically sleep-stumbling in on you in the shower and you could see that he was having difficulties remembering his own name and putting things together, you laugh. And that was what John did, heartily.

The sound of it roused Sherlock awake and he tried to hide the blush on his cheekbones behind an indignant glare. It didn't work on John, who collapsed onto the rim of the bath tub and held his sides.

"Sorry," Sherlock said primly and left the way he came, head held high. It was only later that John thought he might have taken his laughter the wrong way. John had not laughed at his naked body but at his sleepy state. Truthfully, he hadn't even seen a lot of his body, he was too preoccupied with mirth.

Sherlock was a little more aloof around him for the next day or two and John couldn't think of a single thing to say to him to make him feel reassured. He couldn't very well go up to him and say, "Oh, by the way, you needn't be embarrassed about your body. You really look fit." That was just weird, so he didn't. And he needn't have worried anyway, because it didn't stop Sherlock from sleeping naked.

In the end it was worse. Well, worse...

One of the very first things John knew about Sherlock from the bottom of his heart, was, that Sherlock _never _was embarrassed, even if he secretly were. So, to prove he was in fact absolutely okay with John seeing him without clothes, we started walking around naked. Not every day, not even every week. But occasionally, when he couldn't be bothered to put on something just because he fancied a coffee in bed or desperately needed something from the living room.

And John got used to it. At first it was a game between them, to see who would say something first. Sherlock was trying to get John to complain and admit he had a problem with a naked man in his flat, while John was hoping Sherlock would show some embarrassment. Neither won and after a month, the competition was forgotten.

Summer 2010

John was sometimes away from London, sometimes it was Sherlock, but in any case, you don't live together for months and become fast friends just to not talk for days when one of you has left the city.

They took to skyping over breakfast and at night, which meant they took their laptops to bed with them. Sherlock was always under his blanket and John barely saw more than his thin chest and he actually grew very comfortable with the sight. It became so common that he hardly noticed anymore. Sometimes, when he couldn't stop it and he did think about Sherlock (at night, mostly, when he was alone in his cold, empty bed) and what kind of relationship they had, he thought how weird it must look to an outsider if they were to observe them. John talked to the video of a bare-chested man in his bed, it wasn't difficult to make the leap from friends to lovers. He _tried _not to think about it too often.

Autumn 2010

The real problems started later.

It was not in Sherlock's nature to regard anything as off limits. It was one of the traits that made it so easy to compare him to a toddler. If he saw it and he grabbed it, it automatically belonged to him. He appropriated John's stuff within days and it really shouldn't be any wonder that he didn't stop at his laptop or phone. Some boundaries John was able to establish. His RAMC cup was right out, as was, strangely, his notebook. It didn't stop Sherlock from sticking post-it notes in it, but he never used it for his own purposes.

John's bed, on the other hand, was a different story. Sherlock pretty much regarded it as his spare, to be used when his was occupied with something else or "too soft to sleep in". Yet he was trying to be sly about it, as if he sensed that a bed would be something John would try fighting about.

The first time was after a mild concussion and John sent Sherlock to bed.

"You need rest," he argued.

"I can rest on the sofa," Sherlock said.

"You don't fit on the sofa. Bed. Now." But Sherlock's bed was already occupied by a myriad of disguises.

"You can sleep in my bed tonight. Makes it easier to check on you, anyway," John allowed with a sigh.

The second time was when Sherlock had a mild cold.

"John," he whined, nasally.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, it's two a.m.! What are you doing here?"

"I can't sleep. I'll _suffocate_."

"Take the damn decongestant!"

"They make me drowsy." Said, as if it was a personal insult. John fell back into his quilt and drew it over his head, using the age old trick of becoming suddenly invisible to pests when you can't see them any more. Living with a semi-toddler made John revert to that stage, too, sometimes.

"That's the point, git," he muttered into his pillow. For a moment there was silence and John believed Sherlock had taken the hint and left. Alas, he had just pondered what to do next. Which was to sit down on the bed next to John, propped against the headboard to help his breathing.

"You're a doctor," Sherlock said petulantly.

"Not at two a.m., I'm not," John's voice declared muffled.

"You should worry about my well-being."

"I do. That's why you're still alive and there's no you-shaped hole in my window." Sherlock sighed deeply and John ignored him so Sherlock gave a pathetic little cough. John knew what was going on because he knew Sherlock. And this time, John was adamant he wouldn't give in. If Sherlock wanted to be a child and refuse to take his icky medicine, then let him suffer and die and preferably, in silence. Shortly afterwards, John was asleep and shortly thereafter, so was Sherlock.

He did survive the night miraculously.

The third time, Sherlock needed someone to talk.

"No, you don't," John snorted derisively and spread pointedly all across his bed, taking up as much space as he could and then some. "You just forgot that you spilled that stuff over your sheets and are too lazy to change 'em." They played a game of tug o' war with the blanket that John, lying down with no leverage, lost. He did take the spare pillow away, though. Sherlock demonstratively did not care.

The fourth time, John merely rolled over.

The fifth time, Sherlock lost his pyjama top somewhere on the way up the stairs, the sixth time it was joined by his bottoms and the tenth time he celebrated by slipping into John's bed completely naked. By then, John didn't even care any more.

"You're going to freeze to death one day, you know," John said over his shoulder. He didn't need to look. His bed was too small and by then they somehow always ended up touching at some point of their bodies, so he knew immediately that his bedmate was naked.

"Nonsense. Thermodynamics, John, I trust you've heard of them? With you here I run a greater risk of suffering a heat stroke."

"I was exaggerating."

"Poorly."

"Idiot."

"You too."

But John wasn't stupid. He knew it was part of an experiment, that Sherlock was testing how far he could push John before John snapped. That he wasn't being vicious on purpose, not really, that he still always thought that John would put a stop somewhere, that John would throw him out and end their friendship. He didn't know how aware Sherlock was of his reasons, but John did know that there wasn't anything Sherlock could do to make John turn his back on him. Of that John was sure.

The sixteenth time, John ran his fingers over Sherlock's cock for the first time.

November 2010

At half ten, John heard the all-familiar Skype ringtone. He smiled when he saw the caller ID and clicked on the little camera symbol.

"How's Amsterdam today?" he asked brightly. On his screen, a lightly green-tinted, tilted Sherlock scowled back at him. John could only guess that he was lying in bed in the tiny hotel room he so hated.

"Damp, crowded, narrow and altogether too _hip_," Sherlock said full of disdain. He shifted a little, making his laptop wobble for a moment, and slid his hand under his head to get more comfortable. "God, they should really screen who they let into the city." For four days, Sherlock had been in Amsterdam on a private case. He's left John behind reluctantly and John regretted his choice deeply. He'd never been to Amsterdam and despite what Sherlock said about the city was sure he would have enjoyed it. But alas, half the doctors in the surgery he often locumed at were ill and they had begged him to come in daily this week. After working with Sherlock for almost ten months, John didn't really need the money. He did, however, enjoy the independence it Gave him.

"Damn the E.U., making it so easy to travel for us all!" John agreed, good-naturedly mocking the man on the other side of the North Sea whose scowl was getting deeper.

"I swear half the town has been taken over by drunk Englishmen," Sherlock said slowly.

"Drunk Englishmen are the _worst_," John said and nodded empathetically. Sherlock pouted, the light from his laptop screen reflecting from his pursed lips and John was momentarily distracted by how _there_ they suddenly were. He shook his head to clear his mind and focus on the conversation again.

"So," John cleared his throat, "was there a reason you called or did you just want to complain about the tourists. Again."

Sherlock flopped on his back dramatically, giving the laptop and the whole bed another dangerous shake. His quilt slid lower and offered John a generous view of his bare chest. Not that he had never seen it before. He had seen too much of it, truthfully. Sometimes the image of that slim ribcage and the light pink nipples followed him into his dreams. Where he then did unspeakable things to them. Yet on a laptop screen it had another, very different effect on John. This was not Sherlock carelessly forgetting to put something on and strolling around the flat. This was as if it was only for John's viewing pleasure.

As if reading his mind, Sherlock turned his head and his eyes bore right into John's. On a laptop, through cameras. John had no idea how he did that. For a moment they were both silent.

"No," Sherlock said at last. He licked his upper lip. "The couple in the next room are fighting and I thought if I had to listen to mindless prattle, I might as well call you."

"Well, ta very much, you wanker," John said with only half as much venom as that statement deserved.

"And there we go. Go on then," Sherlock replied. He drew his hand under his head again and gave John a look up his armpit. It should have elicited a neutral feeling in John at best, yet he found himself swallowing and _longing_. Longing to run his hand down the soft inside of that arm and down Sherlock's side. Or over his narrow chest. Anything, really.

Before Sherlock could catch him in his inappropriate longing however, Mrs Hudson's appearance in his flat saved John.

"Woohoo," she said and glanced at the computer atop John's lap. "Oh, is that Sherlock? Hello dear, how are you doing? Are you eating enough?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. John turned the laptop so it was facing their landlady as she sat down on the couch next to John, settling in for a little chat. John couldn't help but notice that Sherlock lowered his arm and altogether shifted around until he didn't strike a half as alluring figure.

"Why are you in bed already?" she asked after Sherlock had assured her that he was eating healthy, staying out of trouble and yes, he had already sent her a post card which should arrive any day now.

"It's almost midnight here," he explained and Mrs Hudson went on how strange a concept time difference was and how Holland was only a stone's throw away and she would have gone on forever if Sherlock had not interrupted her.

"Was there a reason why you called on John at this time of night?" he asked.

"Oh! Of course," and she turned to face John and beamed at him. "When will you be home tomorrow? I'm only asking because I have a parcel delivered and I just remembered I have an appointment with my hair dresser in the afternoon and you know those postmen, they always call when you're out for five minutes no matter that you've waited all day for them."

In the end John assured her he would be there to accept her parcel and he got her out of the flat again, finally being alone with Sherlock once more. John smiled somewhat shyly into the camera.

"It's not international crime," he said and run a hand through his hair, a sure-fire sign he was nervous, "just everyday domesticity, but it's all I have."

"Oh, I wouldn't say it like that," Sherlock said softly and John's interest was piqued at the tone, "I find myself missing you and all of that." The men smiled at each other, not full smiles, just little, unsure shadows. It was more than enough because they could read the meaning behind them.

"Then come home soon, because we're missing you, too," John offered.

They kept talking. Some time later, John took the laptop to bed with him and got changed outside of its camera's reach before slipping under the blanket and getting comfortable. Despite what Sherlock had said in the beginning, it was he who did the most talking and an hour or so later, John felt his eyelids getting heavier. He hoped Sherlock wouldn't take it the wrong way when he fell asleep, but it was too late anyway because minutes later he was gone. Sherlock stopped in the middle of a sentence and shut his mouth, looking at John. He couldn't explain why but he wasn't able to ring off. He, too, fell asleep soon enough, a sleeping John the last thing he saw before he closed his eyes for the night.

Despite the time difference John's alarm was the first to go off in the morning. He turned it off automatically and heard a groan from beside him. His eyes shot open and he turned to look, the utterly bizarre display of a very sleep-ruffled Sherlock on a laptop screen greeting him. For a moment John was speechless and then he started laughing, deep from the belly. Sherlock hissed at him.

"What?" he said indignantly. John wiped a tear from his eyes.

"This must have been the weirdest sleep-over in the history of mankind," he said with a hiccough, still chuckling to himself. Sherlock's lips twitched at the corners but he was able to suppress a full display of amusement.

John's laugh died right in his throat when not a moment later Sherlock started stretching his sore muscles, arching his back off the bed. Instead, John gulped and the longing was back. Every fibre of his body screamed to touch the other man and he felt the inexplicable urge to cry for all the miles between them. With surprise John noted that longing hadn't hurt this much since he had been a teenager. He sat up, turned his back to the camera before Sherlock could see him like this.

It was the first time that John could acknowledge, in the light of day and with as much honesty as he was capable of, that he _wanted _Sherlock. He had come to terms with his caring for the man, maybe even loving him and he definitely knew he had an unhealthy crush and was hero-worshipping him. But that day, in the cold morning light, John admitted that he wanted Sherlock with all of his body and soul.

December 2010

_We're not a couple. -Yes you are_.

The words echoed in John's head, over and over again. He had nothing to hold against them, because deep down he had known they were true all along. How could he deny their truth when he so longed for them to become his reality? Sharing their lives, spare time and work, mutual decisions, taking the other into consideration. Well, John did. He wanted to believe, Sherlock did too. _Yes you are_. They were.

Yet here he lay, New Year's Eve, so full of meaning, alone in his bed while from downstairs soft music was seeping into his room, the only reminder of the person he shared his life with. He had tried talking to no avail. John was not yet desperate and he was not stupid. He could take a hint. The first time, at Angelo's so, so long ago, he had accepted Sherlock's polite rejection. After today, when it was so clear to John and obviously to the bloody rest of the world, too, he had tried a second time, encouraged by the trust they had built between them over the last year. But he didn't even get as far as back then. This time, Sherlock stifled him before he could even start. It was worse than before. This time it was not only John's ego that felt the blow._It's only a crush_, he told himself._Not the end of the world if he doesn't feel things that way_.

And then the music stopped and then he heard footsteps on the stairs. John's breath caught in his throat. He propped up on his elbows and fixed his eyes on the closed door to his room. The footsteps stopped in front of it. A minute passed before the knob turned and the door opened slowly. Stealthily Sherlock slipped into his room, closed the door behind him and leant his back against it, looking at John.

"I don't know anything about you," John said helplessly when the silence became too heavy. "Are you gay? Straight? Bi? Asexual? You liked her, don't lie-" Sherlock walked over to his bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress. Hesitantly he reached for John's face. His fingers were just a little damp when they touched the skin, and shaking almost imperceptibly, but John felt it nonetheless. Or maybe it was him. He didn't think all too much about who it was that was nervous. John leant up and kissed him. Sherlock's weight pressed him back into the mattress as he lay down on top of John. His hands played with the hem of John's shirt, nervously, before he found the courage to slip them underneath and over his stomach. Sherlock's fingers felt icy against John's hot skin and a shiver ran down his spine, making him arch up against the man on top of him.

It was all that happened then. After a long moment Sherlock drew back, panting ever so lightly, and fixed John with an almost stern look.

"Is this what you want?" he asked. His voice was cold and distant, betraying his distraction only when his eyes met John's accidentally and John read something like fear in them.

"Yeah," John said and waited. He was good at waiting. The cards lay open in front of them and it was Sherlock's turn now.

"I have to think," Sherlock told him and left him wondering.

January 2011

Things were awkward after that. At least John felt they were. He had no idea what was going on in Sherlock's head, as usual. The man seemed distant, but then he had the whole Irene Adler-thing looming over him. It was at night, when John was not distracted by anything else, had the doubts came.

Sherlock had kissed him, had asked if that was what John wanted and John wanted it very much. All the women since meeting Sherlock were a distraction. He went through them like a horny teenager. John had always been rather "gifted" in picking up women, but five in half a year, that was a lot even for him. Now he could admit that the only reason it was so easy was because he wasn't interested in a long-term thing from the beginning. That made filtering them quite easy. There was no filter to apply.

Still John didn't know anything more about Sherlock. That first night a year ago, John thought Sherlock gay. It wasn't something he could pinpoint, just a vague feeling. It takes one to recognise one, maybe, even though John was not gay. He had always hated that label, when he saw what it did to how people treated you and more so, because it didn't fit him. John was _sexual_. Not hetero, not homo, not bi. Well, maybe bi. But in the end the gender of his partners had never mattered to him, as long as he could get them into his bed. He was shallow that way. If someone piqued his fancy, he wanted them and he never spent time on puzzling what that said about him.

Later, Sherlock ticked all the "asexual" boxes on John's list and the case was clear. He backed off. Still "asexual" was the most fitting description John could think of. Then came The Woman and John had to rethink his evaluation. He couldn't find signs of arousal in Sherlock, but he saw how fascinated his friend was with the admittedly supremely attractive woman. Maybe Sherlock wasn't so much attracted to the physical, but to a sharp mind, and Irene Adler had both in abundance. John cut his losses, knowing he couldn't compete on one end or the other.

Everything seemed to indicate that this time he was right.

Then Sherlock had kissed him and John had to start from the beginning. It was just too hard when Sherlock refused to answer his questions, and John had so many of those.

He wouldn't get answers when Sherlock slipped into his bed the next time. Suddenly, John was overly aware of his bedmate's nudity, something that had never (particularily) bothered him before, but this time, he felt the side of his body that was closest to the miles of naked Sherlock-skin tickle uncomfortably. It was like an army of ants ran through his veins, urging him to move his hand and put it on the man next to him. It grew to the point were John had no choice. He would've gone crazy otherwise.

The moment their skin made contact, the tingling stopped abruptly. Instead, he felt a heat spread out. He heard the sharp move of Sherlock's head on his pillow to face him, but other than that the man stayed silent. He just mustered John intently.

John turned on his side so he could face Sherlock. They were under the duvet and he lifted his arm to look under it. He wanted to see as long as Sherlock allowed him to continue. Because in John's mind there was no doubt that Sherlock would stop him, and quite soon.

His fingers were curled around Sherlock's far hip. They seemed dark against Sherlock's pale, pale skin. He traced the hipbone with his thumb as far as he could go and never took his eyes off his hand. Not once did he ask if this was okay. He trusted Sherlock to tell him otherwise.

John threw the blanket back and drank in the sight of him. Sherlock was spread out in front of him, not a piece of fabric on his body and the biggest surprise was that his penis was starting to get hard. Under John's gaze it deepened in colour until it was dark red and straining upwards. Just from looking at it. It was nothing to what it did when John closed his hand around Sherlock's erection. He felt it throb under his palm, the flesh filling with hot blood and expanding. Further up, the sounds of Sherlock's laboured breath reached his ears but John couldn't tear his eyes away. He loosened his fist and with the tips of his index and middle finger followed the superficial dorsal vein from base to tip while Sherlock's penis grew longer all the while. By the end of his glazial caress, Sherlock had grown twice in length and significantly in girth. John's lips were suddenly very dry.

A drop of pre-ejaculate escaped the slit. John dipped his finger into it and rubbed it into the frenulum. Sherlock was moaning and John chanced a glance. The sight was breathtaking, Sherlock with his eyes closed and his arms spread, surrendered to John's ministrations as his chest heaved rapidly. He took only shallow breaths and that was the moment that John realised: Sherlock was not going to stop him. He didn't only indulge John in his curiousity, he wanted it. Enjoyed it. Would eventually come from it. John took the opportunity.

He cupped Sherlock's testicles, suddenly curious what they would feel like in this hand. The answer was heavy and tight. They were already drawn up, accumulation sperm and almost ready to burst. John squeezed and Sherlock whimpered helplessly. The grin that snuck onto John's face at the sound could no longer be described as pleasant. He was enjoying this, this power he held over Sherlock, a man so restrained under normal circumstances. That is, until John laid his hands on him, at which point he became desparate.

He let the knuckles of his hand glide over the shaft, a little rougher than he would normally do, but Sherlock seemed to like it. He arched off the bed and made sounds that weren't even close to words. When John buried his fingers into the fine curls and tucked, Sherlock was too far gone to articulate even those sounds. He just moaned and thrashed on the bed. In his wildest dreams John hadn't pictured him like this, wanton and out of control, practically begging for more touches, flushed deep and breathless. He liked it a lot.

When John eventually started stroking him, it took no more than a dozen dry strokes before Sherlock came in John's fist. The semen was running over John's fingers, there was so much of it, and John thought that he had never seen anything as sexy in his life as Sherlock's sperm on his hand. He spread his fingers and watched it drop and run down on his wrist and it was _fascinating_. When finally he looked up to check on the other man, Sherlock met his look with an exhausted and happy one of his own. John could only chuckle and scrawl up to take his mouth in a kiss that Sherlock returned lazily.

February 2011

Because they were John and Sherlock, things weren't magically resolved or even just easier afterwards. Sherlock was still as aloof as ever and John disheartened. When a woman asked him out for dinner, he went.

"I had a date tonight," John slightly slurred the words into Sherlock's ear. He knew he was awake and if he wasn't, well John didn't care. The infuriating man lay naked in his bed. On the night John had a date. Of which he had known.

He slid his hand down Sherlock's spine and cupped his buttock. It was the alcohol, but then, Sherlock had asked for it. John was sure of it. Still he didn't hear a peep from him. John slumped down on the man's back and he felt him take a deep breath, definitely awake. He chuckled, a deep sound in his throat, maybe a little dangerous, but even to John himself it sounded sexy.

On second thought, it was the alcohol. Maybe he shouldn't have had the shots. Maybe, if they were to continue what they had started here, John should start asking for Sherlock's permission. Maybe even as soon as the next time, because this time, well let's say it was too late for that.

"Jenna," he said. His breath moved some of the hair around Sherlock's ear. John slid his hand lower, over his thigh and he drew it up on the inside a bit, spreading Sherlock's legs that way. His fingers went back to his arse.

"She was nice," John told him in a low voice while his finger found Sherlock's crack, followed the line down and back up again. "Funny, sexy, interesting. She's a stewardess, did I tell you?" He focussed on Sherlock's hole and Sherlock shifted under him, rearranging his weight into a more comfortable position and drawing his leg in. He huffed a breath, not really a moan, but close. The shiver that went through him at John's touch went through John as well. He smiled against Sherlock's ear.

"The places she's been to. I could listen to her talk for hours." John only stopped talking to coat his finger in spit to press closer into Sherlock. "I wanted to take her home." The tip of his index finger breached Sherlock and this time it was a definite moan. "Gorgeous," John whispered and kissed the shell of his ear, the sound from his flatmate leaving him in awe.

John lay fully dressed half on top of a naked Sherlock and he was getting hot. He felt his cock filling and pressing against the other man's flank, his heat going straight into him. A little torturous, but John liked it this way.

His finger played with Sherlock's arse and he liked that, too. In fact, both of them seemed to like it, judging by the way Sherlock was arching into his hand and the complainy sound he made when John withdrew it just to add more spit. Sherlock put his hand under his pillow hastily and it came back blindly pressing a tube of lube John usually kept in his bedside table into John's hand. John laughed quietly. It seemed that permission was granted implicitly.

"What else have you got there?" he asked and leant over, taking careful attention to press his dick into Sherlock's arse to torment him with what he wouldn't get just yet, drawing a deep groan and having Sherlock arch into his groin, making John wonder if that really had been the best idea. The plan was to torture Sherlock, not himself.

He reached under Sherlock's pillow and fumbling a bit, found a condom.

"I wonder what you have planned?" John teased and laid the condom down into the dip at the small of Sherlock's back, a reminder. He poured a generous amount of lube on his fingers and went back to his ministrations to Sherlock's arse, pushing two fingers into him easily, comfortably, deliciously.

"John," Sherlock said breathlessly.

"Anyway," John continued, ignoring him and his rolling hips, slowly pushing his fingers in and pulling them out again in a speed that was too slow even for him and had to be agonising for Sherlock. "There I was, with this sexy, likeable stewardess, the envy of all the blokes there, and I knew I could take her home. _Fuck_ her." He gave an extra hard shove and was rewarded with another delectable groan here. "And then I remembered you. And I thought, hm, Sherlock almost never goes to bed before me. And he, what? Sleeps in my bed maybe once every other week? How often would you say you sleep here, hm?" It was cruel, going by the frequency of his breaths Sherlock was unable to answer questions, yet John posed it.

"Sherlock?" he asked, reminding him of his presence with a lick along the ridge of his ear. "How often do you sleep in my bed? Hm? Come on, I know there is an equation." It took a while, three deep breaths, before Sherlock could stutter the answer.

"Once in ... once in ... every ... twelve ... John!" Unfairly, John had pressed down on his prostate and was stroking it tenderly now.

"Once in every twelve what, Sherlock?" he teased. John was enjoying it. He knew it would come back to bite him sometime and rather sooner than later, but right now Sherlock was in a state of arousal so high and he was only in the blissful, enjoyable beginnings of it, so he had to take advantage.

"Days!" Sherlock shouted, groaned. He curled in to push his arse against John more comfortably.

"Alright. So, I thought, he only sleeps in my bed once every twelve days, and he's slept with me only five days ago. Plus, he almost never goes to bed before me and Sherlock, it wasn't even nine then, so I was sure you were still awake. You see, I knew you only pretended to not listen when I told you I was going out on a date, but I know you, don't I? I know what you're really like." John chuckled again. "I know what you really like," he said amused. "What do you really like, Sherlock? Tell me."

Sherlock groaned, this time in frustration. He was writhing under John and trying to get his fingers deeper into him, and preferably make them move faster, too, and then John kept insisting on asking those pesky _questions_, kept insisting on making him _talk_, when he tried so much to keep his sounds in.

"Tell me," John repeated in a very smug tone and stilled his fingers so that only the very tips remained in Sherlock, way not enough.

"John!" Sherlock groaned.

"Yes?" John was audibly enjoying this.

"Your fingers," Sherlock said.

"You like my fingers?" John asked.

"Yes!"

"What about them? What should I do with them?"

Sherlock wasn't able to answer. Impatiently, he grabbed for John's wrist and shoved his fingers back inside, groaning when he had them where he wanted them. John looked on fascinated as Sherlock fucked himself on his fingers, as he used his hand like a toy. It was so hot. For the first time John lost some of his control and he fumbled for his fly, opening his trousers and pulling out his cock, relishing in the loss of uncomfortable pressure and a breeze of cool air on his heated skin.

"Another!" Sherlock demanded and John pushed in the third finger along the other two.

"Oh God," Sherlock shouted and John took his momentary distraction to take back control over his hand. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, and went on with his tale as he again slowed down his thrusts to a punishing pace.

"Once every twelve days, slept with me not long ago, too early for you," he summarised and it was getting more difficult for him to talk. He had to wrap this up. "You never sleep in my bed when I'm not there except when I'm out of town. You always sleep here when I'm out of town, don't pretend, I can smell you on my sheets afterwards. There was no way I should bring home this girl to find you already in my bed, except that there was every possibility that you _would_ be. I calculated a probability of 95% and sent her home. A stewardess, Sherlock! Every bloke's dream! God, she was hot. But I knew you'd be here, in all your ... naked glory and I didn't fancy a slap in the face, so I sent her home and went to a pub and I had some shots. And fuck, I'm gonna do this, fuck." He snatched the condom that had rolled off Sherlock's back into the blanket by his side under his writhing and ripped it open and rolled it on. His cock was hard, had grown to full erectness within the last two minutes, spurred by the sounds coming from Sherlock.

"You want this, right?" John asked, pleaded, already aligning his dick with Sherlock's hole that was still gripping at the fingers of his other hand.

"Yes, God, John, yes, do it already!" Sherlock's hand grabbed at him and squeezed at John's cock, too hard, and he hissed.

"Careful!" John chided, presence of mind momentarily restored.

"Sorry, just do it. I've waited so long," Sherlock moaned as his hand slackened. It were entirely the wrong words to say in that moment.

John withdrew his fingers and pushed himself off Sherlock, brought a few inches of distance between them.

"Fuck!" he shouted and pressed the balls of his hands into his eyes, breathed deeply and willed himself to calm. It was difficult. He was so drunk and Sherlock willing and he so hard.

"What, John? What is it?" Sherlock asked. He turned around to see what was going on, his hair sticking to his head, damp from sweat. He was flushed all over, not that John could see it with his eyes shut. "John? John!"

"You're a virgin!" John said after a while. Sherlock groaned exasperated.

"Yeah, so?" he asked impatiently.

"I'm drunk!" John answered.

"That's it?! I don't mind as long as you're not going to be sick on me." And here John laughed, actually laughed. He needed that, he could feel his erection going down with it, a little.

"What is so funny?" Sherlock asked, sounding furious and indignant and thankfully, as if he was pouting like a thirteen-year-old and John felt it was safe to look at him. He looked every bit the way he sounded.

"I'm not going to fuck you, for the first time, while I'm drunk. You don't deserve that," he explained with a warm look in his eyes.

"I was under the impression that all first times occurred under the influence of alcohol, so why not mine as well?" Sherlock tried logically. It kind of worked. John remembered his first time, he and the girl where both drunk on beer they had stolen from her parents.

"Fuck, that's probably true," he admitted and rubbed his forehead.

"See?" Sherlock said and climbed into his lap. More gently this time, he reached for John's now only half hard cock behind him and rubbed it against his arse, rolling his hips in a way he had probably seen in movies. It caught John's penis's interest.

John sat up and against the headboard. He pulled Sherlock to his chest and stilled his hands, pinning them by the wrists against his sides. He kissed him.

Sherlock's inexperience showed. The kiss was chaste and close-lipped at first until John licked his mouth open. And even then Sherlock drew back a little so they went back to it with their lips closed. He seemed to enjoy that a lot, making little humming noises against John's mouth. After maybe two minutes John stopped.

"I'm not going to do it, Sherlock," he said calmly and looked into the other man's eyes, pleading with him to see reason.

"Why not? I want to, I'm sober."

"When we're going to have sex, we're both going to be sober. I want to remember everything. And I don't want to regret anything," John explained and could only hope Sherlock would understand.

"We've been sleeping together for weeks, we've done ... the thing then and nothing more," Sherlock said sadly. He climbed off John and sat next to him against the headboard, distance once more between them. It felt cold this time. "You're never going to have sex with me when you're sober," he concluded. John shrugged. It was probably true, but it wasn't his fault.

"You don't even want to do it," he said and was not able to hide the reproach from his voice. It wasn't that John didn't want to. It was Sherlock. It was always Sherlock. "You don't want to be in a relationship with ... touching and ... feelings." Because that John had learned in the last few days. Sherlock would let him touch him, in the darkness of the night, but in the light of day nothing had changed. It was enlightening.

"Who said anything about a relationship?" Sherlock asked impatiently. "We were just talking about sex!" That, too, John had realised. But could he be friends with benefits with Sherlock? He doubted it. Mainly because he hated the idea in its entirety.

"I did," John told him. He couldn't look at Sherlock and stared at his hands clasped in his lap. His eyes inevitably fell to his now soft cock still in its condom. Distastefully he slid it off and threw it into the waste bin. "Forget it. I'm drunk. Talk to me again when you've thought about it." With that he pulled the blanket over his half-exposed body and turned on his side. Sleep found him much faster than he had anticipated.

March 2011

Then there was the talk.

"What would a relationship entail?" Sherlock asked. He sounded cold, detached, barely present, in short, highly intrigued. "With you?" he added after a moment for clarity's sake.

"I don't know," John sighed.

"How can you not know? You're the resident relationship expert!" Sherlock interrupted miffed.

"Can you let me finish?" John rebutted just as acidly. He stared at Sherlock over the table, eyes narrowed. Sherlock pursed his lips and turned his head away.

"Not much would change. Apart from the physical I mean. I'd expect you to always tell me what's going on with you. Honesty. That kind of stuff."

"That sounds exactly like what we already have. Except the physical, which you refused," Sherlock pointed out. For John this was difficult.

"Sentiment, feelings, loyalty. I'd expect your consideration of me, you couldn't just do stuff without stopping to think what they'd do to me."

"I do that already!"

"Oh, you don't!" John glared at him. "You do?"

"Of course I do," Sherlock assured him confidently. John wearily shook his head, but Sherlock, encouraged by this small victory, pressed on. "It's simple chemistry, I can explain to you exactly what's going on in your brain at any moment. When I touch you, neurons fire impulses through your nerves. You call it love, but it is nothing so quaint. Love is merely a word, created to cater to simple minds. _Romantics_. There are studies that have determined the factors of successful relationships." Sherlock counted them on his fingers. "We're five years apart which falls perfectly into the proposed span of four to seven years, we've both obtained university degrees, even the difference in our intelligence is indicative of success. You see?" He was wild with glee.

"That's, that's all? Chemistry and psychology?" John asked incredulously.

"Well, to be fair, psychology is mostly chemistry." At John's tired look, Sherlock backtracked. "But you're also attracted to me and I to you! We like each other and I'm perfectly willing to put your concerns into consideration, regarding _any_ matter. We already know that we can live together. We already share expenses. If anyone, _we_ should be able to make this work. All this needs now is a name." John only stared at him. The thing about Sherlock's crazy was, it so often made perfect sense. Yet in this, John was adamant.

"_This _is why," he said pointing at Sherlock, "we can't be in a relationship. _This _is not enough for me, Sherlock. It will never be enough. Chemistry. No. I want love, not some... convenient arrangement." John made an abortive gesture with his arms and knew in that precise second that he went too far, felt bad about it and couldn't stop it either way. It had to be said. Maybe he'd get a chance at rephrasing it soon. He would create an opportunity. Till then he refused to look at Sherlock and his big, wide eyes. Not very mature, John knew, but it was the easy way.

"Okay," Sherlock simply said, stood up and went to his room. He didn't run, his pace was perfectly normal. "Thank you for telling me."

If John were still five years old, he would have cried. Fifteen, he would have chased Sherlock and tried to make up. As it was, he was almost forty. Grown-ups behaved more dignified. It was just sad that dignity came with such a high price.

March 2011

"John," Sherlock whispered in the dark.

"Wuh?" John answered eloquently. He forced himself awake and tried again. "What's going on? You alright?"

"Yes," Sherlock said from where he was sat on the edge of John's bed. There was a pause in which John sat up and looked at Sherlock, his eyes getting accustomed to the dark.

"Sherlock?" John's hand twitched. He folded them in his laps before he did something inappropriate like reaching out for Sherlock.

"May I?" Sherlock gestured at the bed, at John, looking insecure and hesitant. It struck John strange, as Sherlock has not once asked for permission before. But of course that was before John told him in no unmistakable words that he was never going to pursue a relationship with him. His heart ached at the sound of Sherlock's voice. He seemed hurt.

"Of course," John said and slid over, giving Sherlock the warm spot. _Always_, he wanted to add. _You never have to ask_. Because John was a besotted teenager that took every chance to be close to the object of his infatuation even though it meant he would get hurt in the process. Maybe it _was_ just chemistry.

They shuffled in the bed until they lay side by side, facing each other. Their hands placed in the space between them, not touching, but only an inch apart. Their eyes wide in the dark.

"Sherlock, I didn't-"

"I'm sorry." They spoke at the same time. John smiled, indicating Sherlock should carry on. The man swallowed hard, shut his eyes for a moment.

"You're..." Sherlock paused, looking for words. "The..." His gaze dropped to their hands on the sheet and he tapped John's index finger, once. "There's no-one," he started anew. "_Nothing _more-," he corrected. John took pity on his stuttering explanation. He put his hand on top of Sherlock's, trapping his fingers, and leant over to kiss him sweetly. Not rephrasing his words, but maybe Sherlock would understand the meaning in the gesture. Another chance to make it right, now that they had talked.

"It's fine," he breathed as he leant back. Sherlock's eyes were closed and remained so for a long while. John stroked his thumb. "Is this alright?" he asked after a while when Sherlock hadn't moved at all. Sherlock nodded, the sound of his hair on the pillow filling the still night air.

"Yes," he whispered and finally opened his eyes to look at John. John smiled, his eyes alight with happiness. His fingers travelled up Sherlock's arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake before they grabbed hold of his hand once more. He shifted closer until their foreheads touched.

"I love the feel of your skin," John confessed softly. It was smooth, unscarred, incredibly soft and perfect and there was so much of it on his lean, long body.

"I," Sherlock said and swallowed, omitting the word and clearing his throat instead, "Your smell." He softly nuzzled John's nose, their lips brushing against each other just so. It was the first night after the talk that they spend together again. They never talked about relationships again, both men with their own agenda. Sherlock knew where he had gone wrong and wanted to show John that even though it _was_ just chemistry it didn't mean he wasn't happy about its presence. And John wanted to show Sherlock what he could have if he let himself.

Spring 2011

What John and Sherlock had was not a relationship, but only because they didn't call it that. It was as simple as that.

Three occasions with Lestrade stood out that described the progression of their platonic relationship to a physical one.

On the first of those it was an early morning on which John was skipping tea entirely and went straight to preparing the strong coffee Lestrade undoubtedly needed if you were to judge by the dark shadows under his eyes. The inspector took the offered mug gratefully and sunk down on the sofa, his head thumping loudly against the wall behind.

"Where's he?" Lestrade asked. He didn't have to be more specific, there has ever only been one person John and he were talking about, sadly.

"Still asleep," John explained, taking his own mug and sitting down in his chair. "Give it a minute, the smell of coffee always lures him out." He took a sip and so did Lestrade.

"No hurry," the inspector said. "A break, 's all I need." They were silent for a couple of moments until heavy steps could be heard on the stairs. Sherlock bypassed the living room and went straight to the bathroom through the kitchen, Lestrade only caught a glimpse of this naked calves under the dressing gown before he was out of sight again.

"You two switched rooms?" he asked John conversationally.

"No," John replied and stopped breathing, waiting for the penny to drop.

"Oh, because I thought you slept upstairs," Lestrade explained, oblivious to John's tense, forcefully nonchalant posture.

"I do," John said. Only now did Lestrade look at him. One of his eyebrows shot up, he looked comical trying to hide his surprise while wanting to appear unimpressed.

"Right," he said at last. After a while he added, "I'm sure you have a sound explanation for it?"

"I do," John repeated. He took another sip of his coffee and almost burned his tongue, all to look as if he didn't feel the tiniest bit under scrutiny or uncomfortable.

"Good enough for me," Lestrade ascertained him and let his head fall back again.

That's how Lestrade found out they sometimes slept together.

The second incident took place a while later in the middle of the night of a particularly vicious double murder, when Lestrade called them to the scene. John was awoken by the sounds of the phone vibrating against the wood of the bedside table. Irritated and grumpy, he answered it.

"Yeah?"

"John?"

"Yes, it is." John cleared his throat. He supposed that he didn't sound completely recognisable and like himself, but it _was _the middle of the night and he had been asleep just a moment ago.

"It's Greg. Sorry to wake you, but we could really use your help with a double murder. Mother and daughter, it's... we have no idea what kind of weapon they used. Huge wounds. Erm, it's, we're, we could really use him."

"Yeah of course, did he not answer his phone?" John was rousing himself awake. Next to him, he felt Sherlock was already awake and looking at him interestedly but keeping quiet for now. On the other end of the phone, Lestrade was silent for a minute.

"This is his phone," he said, carefully, after that. Shocked, John stared at the phone in his hand and sure enough, it was definitely not his own. Biting his lip and willing himself not to lose it, he merely handed the phone over to Sherlock, whose excellent hearing in the still night had allowed him to listen in on the conversation. Who was grinning wildly now. John wanted to kill him so badly.

"Good morning, Lestrade," Sherlock said disgustingly cheerful. John fell back on the bed and planted his pillow over his face. "What did you say to my boyfriend that he is now trying to smother himself?"

"Boyfriend," John groaned and pressed down harder on the pillow. Sherlock pulled his hands away and that's how John didn't die of embarrassment and Lestrade found out that they didn't only sometimes shared a bed, platonically, but did stuff in there that took them wide out of the range of what could be called platonic.

The third time occurred in a hotel not long before the end and it was a memory that would haunt John for far too long.

A private client had come to them with the theft of a family heirloom. The case turned out more complex than John had thought, which probably was why Sherlock had taken it in the first place. In the end they had to consult with a real life police-man, someone who could do arrests, so they called Lestrade because they knew he wouldn't ask too many questions and do what they told him to.

Before they could get to the arresting part though, they had to spend a night in a strange town where their client arranged a room for them. One room for all three of them, and it had only two beds.

"Right. How're we doing this then?" Greg asked. He was uncomfortable and a little twitchy, which Sherlock regarded with open contempt and ignored him for afterwards.

"You take that one, I this," John said stepping in and pointing at the beds.

"What about you?" Lestrade asked Sherlock who didn't answer. John sighed.

"He won't sleep," he explained.

"Won't sleep?" Lestrade repeated to Sherlock's exaggerated eyeroll. John quickly handed him his laptop, successfully distracting him before he could insult the inspector and insult John instead. Sadly, that was a much more preferable outcome.

"The netbook, John? How am I supposed to get any work done on this thing?"

"Be glad I brought it at all," John retorted. "Now say 'Thank you' or you'll have to content with your phone." Sherlock didn't thank him, but he stopped complaining, which was almost as good.

Much later, Sherlock came crawling into John's bed anyway.

"You're going to sleep?" John asked over his shoulder, his voice husky and low, so he wouldn't wake Greg in the other bed. He felt Sherlock's answering nod against his shoulder and settled into his embrace, at the same time thankful for him wearing a shirt and pants and hating that his friend felt the need to restrain himself because of Lestrade's presence.

John was the first one up the next morning. When he was back in the room after a hot shower, Greg had woken up as well. They talked little, but what they said was said in whispers for Sherlock's sake. Sherlock had rolled onto the space John had occupied before he had left and pushed his pillow against his chest in a poor replacement of the man. John couldn't help but brush an errand curl out of his face. He felt indescribably happy out of nowhere and it was a little embarrassing, so he tried to hide his smile. Lestrade saw, observing him and the way an unconscious Sherlock arched into his hand, aching for the contact.

"Does he know?" Lestrade asked all of a sudden.

"Know what?" John asked back, reluctantly looking away from Sherlock and at Greg instead.

"How you feel." John averted his eyes, saying nothing. Lestrade filled the silence. "I know that you two..., it's none of my business, of course. But I see the way you look at him when he doesn't know it and the way you look when he does, and it's not the same. Whatever you two are doing, but does he know you love him?"

John shrugged his shoulders after a moment and sniffed. He brushed his fingers through Sherlock's messy hair.

"He's Sherlock," he said, "He knows everything."

But Sherlock didn't know this and John never got to tell him.

May 2011

Because they had some kind of yet undiscovered telepathic connection, Sherlock always knew exactly when John was bored out of his mind at the surgery and would show up, unannounced and unexpected but never unwelcome, with an armload of unhealthy extra-B BLT sandwiches and packets of crisps in his lunch break. John loved those days.

They sat in the lunch room of the surgery and were enjoying the last crumbles of their meals when John's newest colleague, an unfairly young woman, joined them. John made the introductions.

"Jane, this is my flat mate Sherlock, Sherlock, this is Jane. She started only last month, fresh from uni." Jane was an average looking woman, a little shy in groups of people she didn't know. She did however, and John hadn't been aware of that, been playing the cello for the better part of her life. With Sherlock's talent for knowing everything about people in no time flat, it didn't even take five minutes before the two of them were discussing the different classical composers and arguing about their virtues and shortcomings rather heatedly. To Jane's honour, she seemed to take everything Sherlock threw at her in stride and gave back as good as she got, throwing in a few clever insults at Sherlock's talent at the violin here and there just by the pieces he admitted to prefer. It was, strangely, fun to observe and John leant back, relishing in seeing his friend engaged in a conversation where, for once, both sides were equally strong. Even though he was left out of most of it and his confession to a partiality to Tchaikovsky earned him confusingly similar haughty snorts. He kept his mouth shut after that.

Before long, John's time was up and he got to his feet.

"I'll just get this, then," he said and cleaned their things away while no-one was paying him any heed.

"Right. Please be nice," John told Sherlock and leaned down to him and kissed him. It was their first kiss in front of an audience and it came out of nowhere. John didn't know why he did it, maybe because of Jane even though he didn't feel threatened by her, she was too young and too _female _to be of any interest to Sherlock (who John strongly believed to be gay that day, almost 95% sure of it even) and there was no need to stake his claim. Maybe it was because Sherlock had all but ignored him for the past half hour and he wanted to gently remind him of his existence. Maybe it was just that Sherlock looked almost happy and as if he was enjoying himself and therefore, so _handsome_, John just had to had him right then. In either case, Sherlock locked eyes with him after the kiss and smiled warmly and John just had to kiss him again, only this time with every intend.

Now, while Jane could accept one kiss, two were too much for her patience. She made a disgusted sound and pretended to be vomiting.

"Very mature," Sherlock drawled and looked at her unimpressed around John's head. John turned to look, a faint blush on his cheeks.

"If you're quite done _snogging _your _boyfriend_, maybe we could get back to the topic at hand," Jane told Sherlock. "That is, if you have enough _blood _left in your _brain _for a discussion." Sherlock's eyes gleamed dangerously and John knew he was forgotten once more. He went to leave the room, able to hear Sherlock's last words before the door closed behind him.

"And if I lost a third of my blood, I'd still win any discussion with you," Sherlock said and John muttered, "So much about being _nice_."

Later, when John came home, he heard an unfamiliar melody coming from their flat. He walked up to the music stand and glanced at an unpronounceable, Russian name he had never heard before. Sherlock stared at the music full of disdain. John understood the sentiment; he didn't like it either. Just looking at the notes made his head swim but listening to them being played didn't help either. The melody was too complex for his tastes. John preferred the simple ones.

"So, any plans then? Or will you just be playing that all night?" John asked when Sherlock paused in playing.

"Your ... doctor friend ... is coming over in a while. We'll be playing together," Sherlock informed him. John's eyes grew wide.

"Jane's coming over?" he repeated.

"Yes, I just said so, didn't I?" The piece of music was posing a bigger problem to Sherlock than he had anticipated and he was already irritated by it, letting it out on John.

"And you couldn't have told me so earlier? We have nothing edible in the flat, Sherlock, I could have gone and picked something up from the super market." Sherlock stared at him as if John was from a different planet.

"Why would she want to eat something? She's coming over to play." John gave up on explaining to him that normal people did eat at regular intervals. He had tried that too many times before and failed spectacularly. Because while Sherlock could understand that _John_ needed nourishment more than once a day and was happy to provide him with it, he wouldn't go as far as expand that thoughtfulness to anybody else.

In any case, Jane arrived with her big cello and the two of them got down to it. Before long Mrs Hudson joined John on the sofa. John wouldn't have believed that cello and violin could sound so well together, but they did or maybe it was the two master players in his living room or just the pieces they chose, but it did sound beautiful. And it was just for him and Mrs Hudson and he couldn't, for the love of him, tear his eyes away from Sherlock. His _boyfriend_, Jane had called him. John longed for him. So much, it hurt in his chest. It didn't help when Sherlock's eyes met his and wouldn't look away for long minutes. They had never talked about a relationship again, yet John was quite sure Sherlock's stance hadn't changed. It was all John could do to be patient and show Sherlock how much he loved him and hope he would come around at some point. All while he tried not to hope too much in case his attempts would backfire and would leave him heartbroken. He couldn't allow that.

"It's so beautiful," Mrs Hudson cooed beside him, meaning the music and dabbing at the corner of her eye with a tissue.

"Yes," John affirmed, meaning Sherlock.

They did all have Thai after the little concert and John saw to it that Jane was safely in a taxi home, but he couldn't wait to get them all out of his flat. Once they were finally alone, he took Sherlock by the hand and led him upstairs. There, he laid him out on his bed and proceeded to rid him of his clothes piece after piece, taking all the time in the world to kiss every centimetre that was bared to the air, starting at his miles-long neck and even sucking at his toes at one point. By the time Sherlock was naked (and John still as dressed as he had been when he had started), Sherlock was writhing under him, his cock full and fat flat against his stomach and leaking generously. John feared that if he touched him he'd come in a second and so refrained from laying his fingers on the purple flesh for now.

"I have no idea what I did to deserve you," he whispered into the man's ear and ran his fingers along the line of his opposite clavicle. John lay partly on top of Sherlock and Sherlock arched and thrust up against him, rolling his hips to get pressure where he wanted it, needed it, the most. John shifted his leg between Sherlock's and then held still, allowed the man to rut against him from below. Fascinated, he watched him move. He saw the moment Sherlock was unbearably close and helped him over the edge by taking his balls and squeezing gently, something he knew Sherlock enjoyed. He did, and shouted out as his orgasm hit him, spurting come into John's shirt violently and clutching at him, pressing him so close it must have hurt him actually, trapping his cock between their bodies as the aftershocks ran through him.

"Let me watch you," Sherlock said hoarsely a minute later. He didn't often get to see John, the man mostly finishing just after Sherlock when he was too out of it and practically blind from bliss.

John nodded his consent and opened his trousers, fishing his hard cock out and holding the shaft in his hand only for now. A moment later, he brought his other hand to the glans and stroked it as his other hand slid lower and his fingers brushed against his balls, hidden in his trousers.

"Undress, please," Sherlock said. John shook his head, thrown back against the pillow and eyes shut. His face contorted in almost pain.

"No time," he panted, "Too close." Unseen by him, Sherlock's hand joined his on his cock. John shouted.

"No," he said, pleaded, "Don't do that! Embarrass me." He meant that with Sherlock's fingers on him John would come within seconds and he was a grown man, for God's sake, he had some stamina. Sherlock withdrew his hand, brought a centimetre of distance between their bodies, not enough to no longer feel the heat coming from the other body, but not touching anywhere any longer. John didn't notice. His eyes were still shut and he didn't see the look on Sherlock's face or else he would have stopped.

"Say something," John grunted. "Your voice. Say something." Sherlock shook his head minutely, not knowing what to say.

"John," he whispered at last and John groaned from deep inside at the sound of his name in that voice.

"Christ, yes," he hissed and allowed himself over and came, his come mixing with Sherlock's on his shirt.

"Your voice does things to me," John told Sherlock conspiratorially a bit later and turned his head to grin at him widely. Despite himself, Sherlock had to return that smile. He was helpless against it. Hard, John grabbed him by the hair and pulled him into a violent kiss, Sherlock whimpering into his mouth and then melted into him. John made sure his come-soaked shirt didn't touch him anywhere.

"Be back in a mo." Sherlock heard John walk down the stairs and a moment later, the water running in the bathroom. He rolled onto his back and closed his eyes against the ceiling. He didn't know what to feel. He knew John cared for him, he could tell from the way he made love to him every time. It was just, more and more often Sherlock wanted more and he hated himself for it. What more was there to give? He couldn't even tell, just knew it was missing.

Because the thing was that for all their intelligence, when it came to emotion these two men were incredibly stupid. John, head over heels in love, feared Sherlock more than anything. He knew he wasn't safe, that he could destroy John with one sentence. He feared talking about love with Sherlock and used sex to show him what he felt. It never once occurred to him that Sherlock could want to touch him in return the way John craved feeling him because he didn't believe Sherlock in love, too. That was his big mistake, because Sherlock drew the only conclusion he knew to draw, which was that even though he wanted John, wanted him to the last hair on his body, his soul, his mind, _John _didn't want _him _in return. Oh, he was aware that John loved him in some way, how else could he explain that John would go along with the sex. He just figured that it was something else John did for him, on par with providing Sherlock with food and making sure he stayed healthy and having his clothes cleaned. It gave him a kind of satisfaction that made him happy, but in the end that was all it was for John. John was someone who needed to feel needed.

And that realisation hurt Sherlock.

June 2011

Sleeping had become difficult these days, what with all the things going on in their lives. First Moriarty walked free, now the police were after Sherlock and Sherlock distanced himself so much from John, it was infuriating. They had something, they had trust. But Sherlock, John knew, didn't fully trust him any more. He held back. How was one supposed to sleep with that looming over one?

John went to the bathroom in the middle of the night and saw the light was still on in Sherlock's room. He washed his hands and made a decision. He had never spent the night in Sherlock's room, this would change this night. He opened the door without knocking first and got into the bed, all while Sherlock followed his steps with wide eyes. The light was on, yes, but he was only thinking. No laptop, no mobile. Only Sherlock propped against the wall, staring into space. John was on his back under the covers next to him and gazed up at him.

"What's going on?" he asked without much hope of getting an answer. "Hey." John moved to his side and raised a hand to touch the warm skin on Sherlock's hip. Sherlock's eyes were fixed on John's fingers. John reached up as far as could and pulled Sherlock down to him by the neck, who came willingly. Their mouths met in an urgent kiss and Sherlock rolled John back onto his back so he could lie between his legs. Within seconds he had divested John of his t-shirt and pressed their bodies flush against each other. Their mouths were like glued together as Sherlock made short process of John's pants until at last they were both naked with matching erections. John fought his lips free.

"What do you want?" he asked breathlessly before Sherlock recaptured his mouth. That wouldn't do, he wasn't allowed to separate them.

"You," Sherlock muttered into the kiss, rutting against John's thigh. John swallowed hard and nodded, took Sherlock by the hip and shoved him until their cocks were aligned so he could take them both in hand, bringing them off together.

"No," Sherlock said and shook his head violently, separating them himself this time. "You, in me. I want you in me this time," he said and sounded so desperate.

"Okay," John whispered a little worried. He cupped Sherlock's head in both his hands and brought him back down for a, much simpler, slower, kiss until Sherlock was still again. "I'll need lube," John told him then.

There was lube in the bedside table, remnants of what they later called The Great Lube Experiment of 2011, as well as condoms because Sherlock was never anything but prepared, even though they had never gone this far before. John coated his fingers in the cool gel and started probing at Sherlock's arsehole. The angle was a bit awkward but he sensed letting go of Sherlock's mouth was not an option.

"Help me a little here," he murmured. Sherlock's hand came, shaking, around to meet John's. John retracted his finger to get more lube. In a sweet, gentle gesture he spread the new portion over Sherlock's hand and then guided his fingers to his arse. Together, they pushed their index fingers behind the tight ring of muscle that was Sherlock's anus and Sherlock took a sharp breath.

"That's it," John cooed, kissing him in order to distract him. It didn't work.

Tenderly they pushed in and pulled out, millimetres at a time. Sherlock's finger was much longer than John's. His free fingers stroked the rim of the hole, smoothing it in lube and encouraging it to open up more. After a while, John put a second finger in, followed fast by Sherlock's second so that he was accommodating four in all. The stretch was tight and John refrained from spreading his fingers.

"You alright?" John asked after a while when Sherlock started meeting their fingers' thrusts with his arse.

"Yeah, do it, now," was the reply.

"'kay." John withdrew his fingers, letting Sherlock's where they were, and applied a coat of lube to his hard, sheathed cock. He treated it to a few strokes before it felt too good. Batting at Sherlock's hand to open the way, he guided his prick to his arse and pushed the glans in carefully.

"Oh God, John," Sherlock moaned and threw back his head.

"Hold still," John instructed and stilled his lower body with one hand to a hip. He didn't push further, just waited for Sherlock to get accustomed to the new stretch. "You okay?"

"Yes, yes, keep going," Sherlock panted impatiently. John drew back a little and pushed in some more.

"Oh fuck," Sherlock groaned.

"Not good?" John asked, terrified he had to stop, panting just as badly. The tight grip on the tip of his cock felt heavenly and he didn't want to stop for anything in the world, but if Sherlock couldn't take it, he would do it of course.

"God, no. 's great," Sherlock reassured him.

"Oh thank fuck," John breathed out and used the hand not steadying his cock to pull Sherlock's mouth back to his for a greedy kiss Sherlock returned enthusiastically. He used the distraction to push in another centimetre.

"God, you!" Sherlock screamed into his mouth. They built up a rhythm of ins and outs until John's entire length was buried in the man above him. He had brought his knees up to give Sherlock something to brace against and his hands were under his buttocks to help him move his arse up and down John's shaft. Sherlock's legs were shaking but still he wouldn't give up his position.

All too soon John came, come caught in the condom. Carefully he pulled out of Sherlock, mindful of his over-sensitised cock.

"Sorry, I neglected you," he whispered into Sherlock's mouth, knowing that the man had been too inexperienced to have the confidence to touch himself during their lovemaking and John had been too distracted by the feeling of his tight arse on his prick for the first time to think about anything else. He rolled Sherlock onto his back and slid down his body, ignoring the protests resulting in the lack of continued kissing for now. John had never done this, but Sherlock's cock was wet with precome and he figured he wouldn't be doing it for long, as he started licking it. Above him, Sherlock let out a stream of indecipherable, contextless, nonsensical syllables, telling John that whatever he was doing, he was doing it right. He brought two fingers to Sherlock's arsehole and pushed in easily. Looking for his prostate and finding it, he gently nudged at it with the tips of his fingers. It was too much. Sherlock came screaming, spurting strings of sperm over his stomach and up to his chest. John dipped his tongue into his navel, tasting his come.

"Oh God, please stop, no," Sherlock moaned from somewhere above and John retracted very reluctantly. He flopped down next to Sherlock and laid his head against his arm and waited for him to come around.

"Please don't fall asleep," Sherlock pleaded when he finally turned his head to look at John and immediately John's blissful afterglow had dissipated.

"You need to tell me what's going on," John implored. Sherlock didn't, wouldn't, but it was painful for him.

"Please, just don't fall asleep just yet," Sherlock repeated. His hand caressed John's face reverently as his mouth fell open in wonder that John didn't stop him his time. His hand trailed downwards, over John's shoulders and chest and Sherlock's eyes were never far. When he had felt and seen everything, he tasted it with his lips and tongue. John's hand was buried in his hair, he allowed himself to be distracted. John knew a lost battle when he saw one and whatever it was Sherlock kept from him, he wouldn't tell him, but at the same time it seemed important to him to catalogue John's body with all his senses. That John could grant him, and there would be time to make him talk later.

John's nipples were extremely responsive and Sherlock was fascinated by them. He flicked them, licked them, nipped at them and blew at them and reduced John to a writhing mess below him, his eyes, beaming, glued to John's face to not miss a single reaction.

Later, he took his limp cock into his mouth and John groaned, "Too early, Jesus, give me time," but he didn't stop Sherlock from doing it, either. So Sherlock was able to experience him growing hard on his tongue, and growing longer and bigger until only the tip had enough room left in his mouth to fit comfortably. When his inexperience showed too much, Sherlock coated the cock in lube and sat down on it, wincing just a little at the stretch.

"No, don't," John panted, "Condom." Sherlock shook his head and started sliding up and down on him, his hands on John's chest.

"I want all of you," he explained and kept going. John's hands grabbed at his hips and he rolled them expertly, showing Sherlock how to work them for maximum effect with minimum effort. Sherlock hummed appreciatively.

"Lean back a little," John said after two minutes of this and Sherlock did, his hands on John's thighs now for support. John tipped his pelvis forward and on the next upstroke his cock brushed against Sherlock's prostate. He took a sharp breath. "Like that, don't you?" John said smugly.

Their second round lasted much longer and John didn't forget to bring Sherlock to orgasm first and so was able to feel him contract around him. It was like nothing he had ever felt and enough to make him follow within two more strokes.

Later, when they lay hugging and John was still not allowed to go to sleep while Sherlock was slyly groping his back and arse, he said, "When this is over, whatever this is, we have to go away. A holiday. You'll have to tell me then." Sherlock didn't reply, but his fingers moved slower over John's skin.

"Where to?" he asked finally. John chuckled lowly, tiredly. "What?"

"I was trying to picture you at a beach," John said and nuzzled Sherlock's neck. "You know, sun, sand, palm trees. Your natural habitat."

"Very funny," Sherlock remarked drily.

"I thought so," John said. And after a while, "Where d'you wanna go?" He didn't expect a direct answer and was surprised when one came almost without time for thought.

"Glen Coe."

"Explain." Sherlock sighed a little sigh of exasperation as if it were clear why Glen Coe and nowhere else would do.

"Neither of us likes places with lots of tourists which, as it is summer, is pretty much everywhere. But you like mountains and Scotland's in particular, and I like ... massacres." John contemplated the idea, admitting that it was sound.

"We could get a cottage somewhere. Rent a car. Go hiking. I'd like that. Wouldn't you get bored?"

"I'd have you," Sherlock said and gave a little extra squeeze. But of course they never went, because two days later, Sherlock killed himself in front of John.

September 2014

"Why don't you start at the beginning?"

"You were fascinating. Army doctor with a psychosomatic limp? You knew it was only in your head and you accepted it? No, that didn't make any sense. You _wanted_ it. Embraced it. Did you think you deserve it? Were you in for the sympathy? No, you were eager to downplay it. What was it then? I never found out.

"Then there was _you_. Enough people have been impressed by me, as long as I didn't mention their shortcomings. You? You wanted to know even _more_. I confess I was flattered. I wanted to keep you, show you more, show you what I could do."

"Show off you mean."

"Hush, I'm telling a story here. Then it became a test, an _experiment_, if you want. Show you bits and gauge your reactions. Show you more. Make you do things. See how you'd act. Push you, find your limits. And... John, there were none. No matter what I did, you were always there. So eager for even more. And your confidence, it was beautiful. You became self-assured and cocky, so much the opposite of the timid ex army doctor I first met. But even then you weren't really timid, were you? No, you never were. It was a mask, only ever a mask.

"I'm not an altruist or philanthrope, as you can confirm, but seeing you become _you_, it was all I ever wanted. You were so alive, so beautiful.

"I'm not naive, weren't then either, I knew you got off on that. I knew what I was giving you was a purpose and filling you with life and virility. And it was difficult for me, because at the same time as I was binding you to me, I was pushing you away because I couldn't give you an outlet for that energy. It... was distressing, to say the least. I knew I was going to lose you one way or another."

"You started sleeping in my bed."

"Yes. I thought, if I gave you physical proximity, it might be enough. Studies have shown that people are physically attracted to people they share dangerous situations with. Their heart rate accelerates just the same as when they fall in love and their brains can't interpret the difference, only notice the reaction thus making the people believe themselves in love. We... have dealt with many of such situations. In order to keep you I needed you to fully bond with me. Physical affection releases hormones, you know that. I was counting on the chemistry."

"You wanted to keep me?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why?"

"Why me? What was so special about me? What was in it for you, Sherlock? I don't get it. I 'get off on it', you said. What about you?"

"I...

"I got to have you."


	2. Reunion: 2013 - 2014

Trigger warnings for this chapter:

Implied past suicide attempts

Implied past rape

**Reunion: 2013-2014**

Between

Life... was _boring_.

After Sherlock's technicolour, everything seemed grey and dull. Everything _was_ grey and dull. John found himself wandering through London, remembering chases through this street or that and he forced a smile onto his face. Because that's what you did when you thought of good times, right? Smile?

Here they had stood, pressed against the wall and Sherlock had taken John's wrist to signal he was to stay put. He had raised an eyebrow at John when his pulse had picked up at the simple touch.

There was the spot without CCTV where they had climbed over the fence to Regent's Park and took midnight strolls, or as Sherlock had called it, "observing the patterns of movement of nocturnal creatures after a thunderstorm".

John had a story for every street and every corner in Westminster, so he packed his bags and moved south. Sherlock had hated the south because the only murders there were were those of city men committed by their bored housewives. Instead of Regent's Park John now walked through Greenwich Park, took a break on the grand steps of the old naval college and allowed his eyes to roam freely over the river. It was beautiful and he hated every moment of it.

He moved into a new flat, light and airy with walls that lacked hectic Victorian wall-papers. He got a permanent position as a GP in a surgery in the West Greenwich area and asked the pretty nurse out. He bought new clothes and even learned to drive. He started parting his hair on the other side of his head and grew a moustache. John looked upon the man in the mirror and barely recognised himself and smiled grimly. He worked extra shifts and on Sundays, when his boss wouldn't allow him to be on call again and Mary wasn't available to distract him, John meticulously cleaned his gun for hours.

A year after it had happened, John drank a whole bottle of whisky and slept for a week. After that, he made himself start living again.

Sherlock was not the centre of the universe, not even the centre of John's universe even if he had come close. He had been the reason John needed to be constantly alert and alive and without him around, John felt if not worthless then purposeless and he refused to be that. He was a good man and he deserved happiness. And that was what John was now. He was happy. And maybe a little bored, but bored was so much better than the alternative which was being nothing.

October 2013

Then Sherlock came back from the dead and John's world tipped upside down once more. He felt cheated and wanted to see the man dead, _really_ dead this time, only because it would justify the pain John had gone through. He laid his hands around Sherlock's throat and pressed down. A pulse, lively and fast, but so _strong_, under the tips of his fingers. Alive and warm. Hands on his own, ostensibly trying to pry him away, but the thumbs caressing his skin. Long legs, bent at the knees, framing John's body as he lay on top of Sherlock for the first time in the rest of his life. He could feel a heart beating against his chest. He could feel his _own_ heart beating excitedly in answer.

John couldn't keep his hands off him so he hit Sherlock again. And again. He would have done it again if Mary hadn't pulled him away and put him into a taxi. That night she expected him to sleep and John just laughed cruelly, as if he would be able to sleep. What world was the woman living in.

A world without Sherlock Holmes, that world. John was lost to that world the moment he laid eyes on a childishly drawn-on moustache in a restaurant he had to wait two months to get a reservation for.

John wanted to stay away because his new life was _good_, he was so _content_, but like the proverbial moth to the flame he couldn't stay away for long, was drawn in. Newly-shaved and wearing the jacket he hadn't yet thrown away, he went to see Sherlock to get an explanation and maybe strangle him some more in the privacy of their old home, maybe take the fight to their old bed. That looked like it might have been a strong possibility. The old house even looked different now that he knew who was again living there. He was reasonably convinced that his heart might not break when he walked over the threshold this time. But he was kidnapped and almost burnt to his death before he could test that hypothesis.

The next time John had a chance to test it, he felt a happiness settle deep inside his chest he had forgotten existed, that his head had erased the memory of. He hadn't time to think a single thought about it though, because within seconds Sherlock had appropriated all of his attention, again, and drawn him into a new mystery and just like that, it was business as usual. This time, they were almost blown up by enough explosives to take out a large part of their city and John had exactly 89.5 seconds to think about everything, come to grips with what had happened, realise he really, really didn't want Sherlock to die, consequently forgave him and put everything behind him, ready to meet his maker with the one person at his side he would give and do everything for, no questions asked.

They didn't die that day. Which was good, when you think about it.

John wanted to be angry at Sherlock for a while longer, but he didn't find it in him when the man was so gloriously alive next to him. He was giddy. A spring in his step and everything. In the spur of the moment he finally asked Mary to marry him and she accepted. John was the happiest man in the world and he couldn't wipe the smile off his face when his eyes landed on the reason for all of this happiness. Hint: it wasn't his brand-new fiancée. John chose to think it was a combination of the two of them.

Together, he and Sherlock had prepared a speech for the press and invited all of their friends for a little coming-back-from-the-dead party. When they walked down the stairs and everything was exactly like it had been a hundred times before, Sherlock running ahead, seemingly uncaring about John but always aware of how many steps John was behind, it was too much.

"Sherlock," John called and Sherlock turned around, the shadow of a smile on his face. "You love it, being Sherlock Holmes," he told him. Sherlock looked at him quizzically.

"I don't even know what that's supposed to mean," he replied. John did. Because for every Sherlock Holmes, there is a John Watson. The one can not be without the other, not really. Shells of men. The way people looked at them, a team, and talked about them. And John loved being that John Watson.

Sherlock turned away to face the door and the crowd behind but John stayed on the stairs, a smug smile on his lips as he looked down at this ridiculous man whose simple being filled him with life to the brim. Like he was the blood pumping through John's veins. Sherlock noticed his staying behind and turned back around, took the few strides that brought him to John. John a step up, both of them at eye level.

"I'm not a hero," Sherlock reminded him. John's eyes swept over him, the dramatic coat back in place, the artfully arranged curls.

"You love being admired," he objected.

"I don't care what people think," Sherlock said.

"Not people, no," John conceded slowly as his eyes stopped at Sherlock's lips. Sherlock licked them self-consciously and John's eyes snapped up. He swallowed hard when Sherlock imperceptibly crowded closer and that was when it all came flooding back and reality hit hard.

Holmes and Watson. Fighters of crime.

Secret lovers.

Past.

November 2013

"Do you want some tea?" John asked one night shortly after Sherlock's return.

"You're not happy," Sherlock said apropos. John sighed. He _had_ wondered how long Sherlock would be able to hold it in. A week was quite long for him.

"Look, you have barely met her and I've had a lot of things on my mind these past few days, what with getting almost burnt to a crisp or getting almost blown up or, you know, feeling stupid for wasting more than two years mourning someone who wasn't actually dead to begin with, but I can guarantee you, I _am_ happy. Very much so. Mary isn't perfect, but neither am I. She helped me through a rough time and I love her very, very much, so whatever it is you think you have observed, I'll thank you to keep it to yourself."

John wasn't usually the type for long speeches, but Mary and their life, despite anything Sherlock might have to say about either, were incredibly important to him and he needed to make sure Sherlock wouldn't spoil it. Because in the past, it had never mattered what he had to say about any of John's girlfriends; like everything Sherlock said or did it always took up residence in John's head and proceeded from there. He wouldn't let his relationship with Mary fall victim this time around.

But judging by the look on Sherlock's face, that wasn't even what he was about to say.

"You weren't going to say anything rude about her, were you?" John ascertained just to feel like a complete arse.

"No. But the fact that your mind immediately jumped to Mary when I mentioned you were unhappy speaks for itself, wouldn't you agree?" Sherlock observed.

"Shut it," John warned and then went to prepare tea. This conversation was screaming for some good, strong tea. He sighed. Again.

John took longer than necessary to prepare the drinks. In the end, the tea was a little over-steeped and already starting to cool, but he had used that time to braze himself for what was to come and lay out some well-formed arguments.

Truth was, John wasn't happy. Had thought himself so, but had forgotten what true happiness felt like. Because of Sherlock, who had taken it all with him when he jumped off a blasted roof.

Mind, he was exhilarated. His girlfriend had agreed to become his wife, his job was fulfilling and best of all, he had Sherlock back, his own personal wonder, the one thing he had asked for over and over for two straight years and whose loss John could never completely accept. For all intents and purposes, he should be dancing through the streets singing.

"Okay, hit me. Why am I not happy?" John asked and sat down, unconsciously tensing his muscles in preparation, ready to fight whatever Sherlock might say. Yet Sherlock only shook his head sadly.

"I can't say _why_," he said. "You were _thrilled_ for the first two days but then it stalled before you came down from your high yet rather than stop at the initial level, you are actually _less_ happy now than you were before. It doesn't-" Sherlock shook his head and looked at his clasped hands, for once so demurely in his lap. "I thought you'd be glad I was back," he almost whispered as if he feared John's answer.

"I was," John permitted but he, too, could not look at his conversational partner and instead fixed his eyes on his tea. He was grateful to have something to hold in his hands. "I _was_."

"What happened?" Sherlock asked quietly. John only shook his head, smirking ruefully.

"Tell me," Sherlock pressed. "I need to know. If you'd rather want me gone."

"Not good at those things, remember?" John reminded him tersely. He didn't deny Sherlock's notion, a fact Sherlock of course picked up on.

"So you want me to leave?" he asked. John shook his head. His reply was quick.

"No. God no, it's not that." He ran a hand over his face and finally looked at Sherlock. For once the other man didn't bother to hide the hurt and confusion on his face and it reminded John again why this was so difficult. He often felt the need to hit Sherlock, but he never wanted to _hurt_ him. Those contrary feelings he had for the man.

"It's just, I thought I could forget it, you know? You, going away. I thought we could just pick up where we left off, that we could be friends again. But I'm not even sure I can trust you again. Will it ever be like before?" John shrugged his shoulders. He wanted Sherlock to contradict him. "I don't know. I guess I was disillusioned. I thought you'd come back and everything would be sorted." He had said everything and waited for Sherlock to explain, with cold logic, why they would go back to being the best of friends soon. That's why his words knocked the wind out of John's lungs.

"We were never friends," Sherlock said very quietly, remembering the last time he said those words and the reaction he got then. If anything, John looked even more hurt this time.

"Christ," John said in a tone that indicated he didn't even have it in him to fight any more.

"But we could be now," Sherlock offered hopefully. It was this that made John finally lose it.

"And I guess I should be grateful, shouldn't I?" he exploded. "The great Sherlock Holmes, finally extending his hand in friendship, after I have known him for two years and mourned him for just as long. What _is_ this, some kind of fucking consolation prize?" He jumped to his feet, steaming.

"I _meant_," Sherlock tried to stay calm for the sake of both of them, "that we were barely acquaintances before we became flatmates before we became colleagues before we fell in love. I _meant_ that never in between were you anything as simple as a friend to me."

For very long John stared at him. "You mean, you-," he started but couldn't finish the sentence, the word reluctant to leave his tongue, the old hope he thought he had buried with Sherlock's body two years ago flaring up weakly. Never completely extinguished, it seemed.

"Yes," Sherlock simply said. He shrugged his shoulders in a helpless manner.

"But you never said," John said and the accusation in his voice was only almost inaudible. "You said, chemistry."

"Yes, well. It seems I miscalculated. I never imagined you could feel the same."

"Because you thought me incapable of loving you?" John asked bemused, his forehead wrinkled in confusion.

"Because I thought myself as incapable of being loved, not least by you," Sherlock clarified with another shrug.

"Sherlock," John whispered. He was hurt on Sherlock's behalf by the man himself.

"As I said: Miscalculation," Sherlock merely repeated. John paced the room. His eyes were painfully closed. He thought about all the time he hadn't allowed himself to hope, when he had held back and only allowed his actions to speak, always thinking Sherlock would cotton on one day. Realising he hadn't.

At last, he asked, "What would have changed? If I had told you then?" When Sherlock answered, he wouldn't meet John's eyes.

"Who knows," he said meekly. "Nothing." John came to a stop behind his old armchair and leant over the back, fixing Sherlock with a piercing stare until the other man had to give up his pretence and looked at him. John held his gaze and then, nodded once sharply.

"Right," he said and resumed his pacing. A minute later, he ran both his hands through his hair, groaning. "Fuck!" he yelled, it sounded as if he was in pain. "Fuck, Sherlock," he moaned again. "Two years."

"You would have never met Mary," Sherlock reminded him quietly. "You would have never fallen in love with her. You- You have a future now. You're happy." John snorted.

"I think we've already established that I'm not happy," he reminded Sherlock of the beginning of this conversation. He shook his head. He wasn't supposed to say that.

"He left me no choice," Sherlock continued frantically defending himself. "He was going to present me your head on a golden platter, literally, you knew him."

"I understand why you had to do it, but if you had known how I felt, tell me you wouldn't have let me in on it," John said.

"It was essential you believe in my demise," Sherlock insisted stubbornly. John took a step towards him and sank to his knees in front of Sherlock. Sherlock was aghast to see tears in his eyes. "It won't change anything now," he appealed to John in a whisper.

"It would change how I feel about it now," John said. And Sherlock contemplated him. At last, he shook his head.

"I would do it all again, exactly the same," he said. This time, John believed him. It didn't stop the tears from falling from his eyes. It didn't stop him from clinging to Sherlock's knees when Sherlock laid a hand on his shoulder. It did finally stop him from thinking in hypotheses.

There was his answer.

Never enough.

December 2013

For their real first case back together, Sherlock had chosen a chase. He was sentimental that way, reminiscing their first ever case. Other than that one, this one ended with them in a cramped and crowded warehouse on a stakeout. It wasn't what he had anticipated; by the end of it, he had inadvertently locked them in.

"How could you not have seen this?" John asked frustrated when he inspected the lock that looked dishearteningly secure.

"I was distracted, I'm sorry," Sherlock replied annoyed. "Why is it always my fault?"

"Because you're the one that always goes on about _you-see-but-you-don't-observe_!" John yelled. He texted Mary, told her he'd be late. "Call for help?" he asked a little calmer.

"No sense in it. It will just alert the Cobblers," Sherlock said. He was looking around, for what John didn't have a clue.

"Are you looking for a way to get us out?"

"Single point of entry. Airtight." Sherlock sounded distracted.

"Then what _are_ you looking for?"

"A place to spend the night. We're gonna be here for a while, might as well sleep." John looked at him incredulously.

"Sleep? Sherlock, we're locked in, at the mercy of a dangerous and armed gang, might I remind you, and you want to sleep?" he asked dubiously, expecting Sherlock to have made a joke even though it wasn't his usual type of humour.

"You're tired. And," he pulled away a dirty sheet to expose a slightly less dirty mattress on the ground that John hadn't noticed, "you're getting grumpy when you're tired. Or hungry. But I doubt I will find anything edible in here, so this is the best I can do." John stared at him, simply stared at him open-mouthed. At last, he found his voice.

"You expect me to sleep on this? Here? This … flea-infested thing?"

"Do you have a better idea?"

"Erm, off the top of my head, not coming here in the first place sounds about right." Sherlock threw his arms in the air in gesture so dramatic, John had trouble hiding his smile and had to remind himself that he was cross with Sherlock for having brought them here.

For a moment the men just glared at each other in a contest of wills.

"Fine," John said after it got too intense. "How are we going to do it?" Sherlock relaxed minutely and gracefully got down to his knees on the mattress to arrange the blanket that was carelessly spread over the thing.

"I propose we just lay down and close our eyes. But maybe you have a better way of falling asleep," he said disgruntled. John shot him a dirty look.

"I meant, us. Back to back?"

"We have done this thirty-seven times before, don't act coy now," Sherlock moaned, disgusted, and threw the blanket at John's head. He caught it before the dirty thing could hit him straight in the face. John eyed it doubtfully. "I'm not going to bring this anywhere close to my body," he proclaimed and continued to ignore Sherlock's allusion. Of course they had done this before, but that was ... before. They were different people now. Their relationship was a different one. They were friends now.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "Suit yourself," he said. He wound his coat tighter around his body and lay down on the mattress. John hesitated, looking at the threadbare blanket in his hand that had an unpleasant smell coming off it. He let it fall to the ground. Copying Sherlock, he drew his jacket tight and joined him on the makeshift bed. Within minutes John was freezing. It was okay for the other man with his ridiculous woollen coat that covered him calf to nose, John's jacket was too thin for this. He started shaking and tried hard to suppress it.

Sherlock rolled on his back and sighed exasperatedly. He unbuttoned his coat and let it fall open.

"Oh for God's sakes, come here," Sherlock said with still some of that disgust in his tone. "You're freezing, we can share heat. It's physics, nothing more." With those words he bodily dragged John against his chest, slotting their bodies together. John fell stiff. His nose was pressed against Sherlock's shoulder but he didn't dare move. It felt too weird to be back here, in his embrace, as Sherlock flapped his coat over his sides. It wasn't big enough for him to close it around John, but that hadn't been his intention either way.

John's hands were pressed between them. He turned them around awkwardly, pressing the palms against his own chest, not knowing where to put them.

"Isn't that uncomfortable?" Sherlock asked. He had suddenly become softer and breathed the words into the hair at the top of John's head.

"Quite," John confirmed. A shiver ran down his spine at their proximity, cooling him from the inside, but it was delicious. It got worse when Sherlock ran his hand over his back.

"What're you doing?" John asked harshly. He tensed even more.

"Helping you relax. You're stiff as a board," Sherlock murmured, again into his hair. John swore he felt him move his head a little, as if he wanted to feel the hair brush his lips. Then he mentally shook himself because Sherlock wasn't like that. Never been, never will. More probably John's hair had tickled his nose.

But for a moment he let himself enjoy it all. He had missed this, the smell of Sherlock and the feel of him against John. He closed his eyes and just lived in the moment. It was so easy to fall back into it. Into him.

The next morning, John woke up feeling stiff but warm. Hot even. He was awake like the army has taught him, immediately and irreversibly, and sensed an unusual weight about him. His eyes travelled downwards until his view was blocked by a mop of black hair on his chest and the man it belonged to wrapped around him like a blanket.

Memories of dozens of mornings of waking up to this very body wrapped tightly and warmly around his own, of him petting soft, sleep-mussed hair until the owner woke up slowly and his eyes searched for John's before they brightened into a smile. Some mornings, when John couldn't make himself get up and instead revered this body, bestowing kisses onto every plane and every protruding bone until Sherlock was shivering with unsuppressed want, incomprehensibly stuttering, writhing and begging for John until he took mercy on him and let him come in his fist while muting the shouts with his mouth. Memories of Sherlock, breathless, naked, sleepily, glorious and as blissfully happy as he ever was as he reached out for John in the aftermath for a cuddle and John thinking that he would happily die like this as he ignored his own throbbing need for the time being and enjoyed feeling this man relax in his arms, when he thought that with a bit of luck and some patience it could be like that forever. Mornings that for all the difference the past two years have made could have happened in another life to another person.

John wanted to shove Sherlock away from him. The memories stabbed his heart and he could feel it bleeding out inside him. He _wanted_, he wanted so much. He wanted to take him, ravish him until they were both again breathless, but most of all John wanted to feel Sherlock's lips against his own and feel the air leave his lungs to pass into John's. He wanted to rid him of his clothes and bare him to the soft dawn light, show him with his lips and tongue and maybe with his teeth, too, what those two years have done to John. But he couldn't, because time, the great healer, had stitched up the big hole in John's heart and giving in to his desire now would be to rip it open again. It was the all-too-fresh memory of that pain that left John paralysed.

"I know you're awake," Sherlock murmured hoarsely and the mass of black moved ontop John's body but it didn't move away from him. "And you're thinking. Stop thinking, it's distracting."

John tried to swallow a few times and found his throat too dry to try. He forced air into his lungs and his tongue to form words. "You can't know what I'm thinking," he said when he found his voice and prayed that it was true.

"Wrong," Sherlock sneered and before John could protest it, he laid his hand over John's obvious erection. He hadn't even noticed his arousal before but it was obvious now. John bit back a groan. This was all wrong, so wrong. Taking his non-reaction as consent, Sherlock began to softly pet him through his jeans.

"I know you want it," he nuzzled John's throat and dragged his lips drily over the exposed skin making him shiver. "You've been thinking about this. Us. You've missed it. I did. Your hands on me, your mouth. Do you want mine? Or is this enough? I used to fantasise about you all the time."

John lost the bit of control he had over his body's reactions then and out of its own volition his back arched to press further into Sherlock's hand, all the while his mind yelled at him to stop this nonsense. Instead he fell mindlessly into the long-standing pattern as he drew up his leg to give Sherlock something he could grind against. His mind, the part that hadn't gone on strike in protest when his hands grabbed fistfuls of the other man's jacket, noticed the lack of arousal in the man above him and started spinning. _Used to,_ he had said. He had _said_ something, complete sentences. Sherlock never spoke more than two intelligible words in a row when he was aroused. He wasn't aroused. He did this ... for John? But why would he? What purpose did it serve him? Just like that, the doubts were back.

"You don't have to do this," John told him, turning his head away, out of reach of Sherlock's nuzzling. The feeling of his lips on his skin had lost all appeal.

"Maybe I want to," Sherlock murmured into his too-hot skin. One by one the words penetrated the lingering hazy fog and made it go away. John laughed bitterly.

"No, you really don't," he said hard, unmoving. "You never did." Sherlock leant back to bring some space between them and to watch him better. To read him.

"What," he started but lost his resolve quickly. He couldn't stay aloof long enough to finish his question. Sherlock swallowed uncomfortably.

"Never. Not once," John said and gave a push against his chest, finally shoving him away. "You never once touched me. I'm not sure what you are doing now, or what you think you're doing, but it's not because you want it. What's your agenda with this, Sherlock? What do you think you can achieve?"

For a moment, Sherlock looked at him dumb before he recovered and let himself fall back onto his back, effectively hiding his face.

"I've touched you many times," he pouted.

"Never first. You never started it, so why would you do it now unless you plan something. What is it? Come on, I won't even be offended. Much." John remembered the night in the tube carriage with the bomb and how he had fallen for Sherlock's show then and was adamant he wouldn't be played again. That time, it was only his forgiveness that had been taken, and he would have given that willingly not much later anyway. This time, there was so much more on the line. He wouldn't be manipulated into hoping again.

"So- you don't want it?" Sherlock asked quietly. John turned his head to look at him and only saw his profile.

"I'm engaged," he reminded him.

"But if you weren't, if there was no Mary," Sherlock kept asking.

"Then it would still have been two years, Sherlock. Or, to answer your question, no, I don't bloody want it!" He jumped off the dirty mattress and stared down at the impossible man who could still make him furious faster than anybody else ever could. Sherlock sat up slowly and turned his back to John for a second. Before John could react in any way, Sherlock was standing too and walking towards the window.

"They should be here any minute."

For the rest of the morning, he spoke no more with John than was absolutely necessary.

January 2014

They tiptoed around each other. Everything was "please" and "thank you" and "if you don't mind". John couldn't hold Sherlock's gaze for long and it was painful. He had missed him so much and now he couldn't even look at him because there was so much between them that needed settling. He was so angry. John had always been so careful with who he gave his heart and then came Sherlock and like everything else John possessed, he had just taken it without asking. It was only now that he was allowed to use it again that John realised the full amount of what had happened.

The thing John pondered night after night was how much exactly he had been deceived by Sherlock and he resented him for it. John had believed himself in love and Sherlock, in his own way, the same so. They hadn't been perfect but they had been on their way there. Then Sherlock left and if his stupid, stupid return was anything to go by, it hadn't been so very hard on him.

Then John hated himself, because Sherlock had said so, the first evening they had spent together. _Married to his work. High-functioning sociopath._ Those were his words and John had dismissed them as bullshit. Later he had thought Sherlock was hiding behind these descriptors because the alternative was to be vulnerable and that he let his shields down for John only. That John was as much of an exception to Sherlock as Sherlock had always been to John. Their one in a million.

Then Sherlock came back and said _Surprise!_ and _Not dead!_ and _In my defense, it was quite funny!_ and John's world imploded a second time. That Sherlock was incapable of empathy could not have been more obvious then. And when John allowed him to have one symptom of the disorder, he had to allow him the others, too. So from Sherlock's surprise at John's anger and hurt John had to infer that he had never loved him back, despite his own words to the contrary. To realise that meant the last two years mourning the man had been even more of a waste than he had initially thought.

"You have to make a decision," Mary told him once in the dark of the night when he couldn't fall asleep. "I want to spend my life with you but I'm not going to share you with him." And then she gave him until the wedding to find out and John cried and Mary held his hand and John had no idea what he had ever done to deserve her.

The first time they kissed, it was four years to the day they had met. Neither man acknowledged the date, even though it was on both of their minds and clearly so when you took a closer look at them. Sherlock wore his best suit and a dark, navy blue shirt because he knew John had a weakness for dark, rich colours on him. He was not trying to seduce him, but he aimed to be seen from his best side.

John on the other hand wore a brand new sweater with jeans. He had spent more time on deciding which one to buy than could ever be known to anybody, but in the end he had decided on a simple, blue and white striped one. He had once owned one very similar, but like almost all of the things that had reminded him of his life with a certain consulting detective, he had given it away after the fall. The old one had often been closely scrutinised by Sherlock but he had always held his tongue. In Sherlock speak that meant he liked it.

They had dinner and for once, they ate it off of plates with real silverware. Between them, they had already finished one bottle of wine and were well on their way with the second. John made Sherlock help him clear the table to make room for their dessert, but when he took the tub of icecream from the freezer and turned around to go back, Sherlock was too close behind him. John took a step back, but his path was blocked by the fridge. He bumped hard into it.

"Christ, you trying to give me a heart attack?" he laughed and put the icecream on the counter. Sherlock smirked.

"Nothing could be farther from my mind," he claimed. From this close, a whiff of the scent John had smelled all night hit him strongly. Unconsciously he leant in and sniffed.

"It's you! What is that, you smell good!" he exclaimed. It was the alcohol and the good food and Sherlock being all handsome for him, but for a moment John forgot everything, grabbed Sherlock by the hips and drew him nearer before he burried his nose in the place where shoulder became neck. He hummed his approval of the smell.

Then he noticed that Sherlock was gently swaying under his hands and it all came back to him. He hesitated only for a beat before he decided that it was too late anyway and he was curious to find out how far he could go. He pressed a soft kiss into Sherlock's skin.

"J, John," Sherlock stuttered weakly, but he also tilted his neck to give John more room to work with. As if unsure if it was allowed, he put his hands lightly on John's shoulders, ready to take them away at the first sound. John kissed him instead.

Sherlock melted into John, pinned him to the fridge with his weight and John had to react fast to hold him up before he accidentally fell down. He huffed a laugh.

"Still got it, I see," he quipped. Sherlock gave him a weak, watery smile that immediately had John serious and alert. "What is it? Hey?"

Sherlock spluttered, the alcohol apparent in his flushed cheeks and the slight slur in his words."You already hate me, now you kiss me and it will break up your engagement and you will hate me even more." John had to take a mental step back. He had no idea where that was coming from.

"What?" he asked bewildered and realised too late that he shouldn't have started like that. "No, no, what are you talking about? I don't hate you!" Quite the opposite, but he had to come to terms with that himself before he could say so.

"It's true though! You've been angry with me ever since I've come back, and when I tried to, to ..., you said you didn't want it! Now you've had some wine and it affects your perception and if I let you go on you will blame me and I can't let that happen, John, I just can't lose you! And you said you have Mary now! You love her, but you're kissing me, which doesn't make any sense, but then you never made any sense, and that's what I always liked about you, because you're not boring like everybody else, but this is insane!"

John shut him up with another kiss before he could utter even more nonsense. His hands tightened around Sherlock's hips, like he wanted to reasure, to ground, him, then they slid lower until his fingers rested on the beginning swell of Sherlock's buttocks.

"Everything you say is true," John murmured into his lips, "Except that I don't hate you and I won't blame you for any of this." He pulled Sherlock into him. The fridge behind him was cold and it was uncomfortable, but he loved the feeling of the other man against his body. It was John who did the kissing. Sherlock's only contribution was when he opened his mouth a bit to grand John's tongue access. Apart from that he was still.

"You'll regret this," he said miserably.

"How can I regret what I want most in the whole world?" John retorted. He stopped kissing him and opened his eyes to take a look at the other man. To his horror, there were real tears in Sherlock's eyes.

"I thought about this all the time," Sherlock said quickly before John got a chance to express the concern that was clear on his face. "While I was gone. It was the only thing that kept me alive. I'd close my eyes and see and hear only you."

"I'm right here," John whispered. He had no idea what to do now. He never learned how to handle such a situation like this. Sherlock shook his head.

"It's not the same," he said.

"It could be."

Again the little head shake, but he also closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath.

"May I kiss you again?" John asked softly. A long moment later, Sherlock gave the smallest of nods. John leant in and kissed him more gently than before. He had no idea what had happened to Sherlock in his time away because he never asked. Truthfully John didn't want to know. Sherlock was well and alive without any obvious scars or injuries. It was only in the way he sometimes talked or behaved that John suspected there was more than he willingly told.

He let his hands roam freely all over Sherlock's back and felt him gradually relax, even reciprocate the kiss. After a while his hands stopped around his head where he carded his fingers through the riot of black curls. That had always been something Sherlock enjoyed.

John was cheating a bit. He had months of experience with this man that he could access now to make him more amenable as John felt his own arousal flaring up. He did the thing where he bit into Sherlock's bottom lip and tucked a bit. He nuzzled the sensitive, hairless spot behind his ear and licked the shell of it. He could feel the shiver running through the taller man that was wrapping him almost completely. Tentatively Sherlock took more control over the kiss and when he noticed that John let him, he guided his mouth back to where Sherlock wanted it most, on his own. He pressed rhythmically into John, subtly grinding his pelvis against his and pushed a leg between John's. John had had no idea that he was that aroused until he felt the press of Sherlock's leg against his engorged member. He threw his head back and it hit the fridge.

"Fuck," he chuckled because that had hurt. The tears had dried in Sherlock's eyes as he looked at John with equal measures of fondness and hesitancy. "Come here," John growled sexily because that was not good. He drew his head back in for another kiss but this time, there was heat. He left one hand in Sherlock's hair while the other wandered downwards. One-handedly, he made short process of the buttons on Sherlock's trousers and slipped his hand inside without bothering with the zip. He stopped.

There was no hardness. He let go of Sherlock's lips and shot him a questioning look. Sherlock kept his eyes stoically closed, a terse look on his face.

"Is everything alright?" John asked. Sherlock nodded stiffly.

"Yes," he breathed roughtly. John didn't believe him for a second.

"Is this okay?" he asked again.

"Yes, of course. Ignore it." But how could he ignore it? That was ridiculous.

"You don't want to? Because, we don't have to." John couldn't lie, he was hurt. He drew his hand from Sherlock's penis and brought as much distance between them as was possible. Sherlock caught on and took a step back, keeping his eyes on the ground now that he had opened them.

"I do," he said stubbornly. Coldly. "I just, I need some time. Proceed. Please." It was he who initiated the kiss this time and John responded, but with confusion.

"Really?" he just needed to know.

"Yes," Sherlock hissed. It was a strange thing, to feel the air leave his mouth and enter John's like this. It was not very arousing, but John wanted to believe him, even if he felt Sherlock's tenseness all the same. For a long time they kissed and John tried to caress him to make him relax, but to no avail. When he still couldn't feel an answering bulge in Sherlock's trouser, he told him, "Relax, love." That was wrong.

Sherlock stopped immediately, took another step back and snarled at him.

"Don't you think if I could I would?" he asked venomously.

"I just want to help you," John said concerned.

"I don't need your _help_." Sherlock spit the words at him. He took another look at John and then he stalked away to his room where he slammed the door loudly. John thought that had been hate in his look.

For the first he wondered what exactly they had done to Sherlock.

February 2014

The truth was, Sherlock had changed. A lot. There were the subtle differences, like in his physique. He was more wiry now, his shoulders and arms especially had gained a significant amount of muscle. He had always been moving with grace, but now he was almost silent. More noticably were the changes in his attitude. He welcomed Mary into their small circle of friends so easily, almost eagerly without his trademark jealousy of John's friends. He was more patient now and also more quiet. There had always been times when he wouldn't talk for hours or days, but back _before_ it had been with a nervous energy. Now, Sherlock was just quiet, and it frightened John.  
>He found Sherlock in one of his black moods still in his bed one afternoon. John considered making a joke to lighten the air, but eventually dropped the idea completely. He felt totally helpless in the face of the motionless man in front of him who ignored his presence so absolutely.<br>"Tell me what I can do," he pleaded. He could as well have talked to the wall for all the answer he got for his efforts. "Please, I just want to make you feel good." Maybe it was in his imagination, but John thought Sherlock flinched ever so lightly. He took a step closer to the bed and put his hand on his shoulder.  
>John didn't have to question his perception then, as Sherlock lashed out. He turned around and threw a fist at John's face, missing, but John, surprised and shocked, toppled backwards and stumbled against the wardrobe, where he fell down. His eyes were huge in surprise and puzzlement.<br>"Do _not_ touch me," Sherlock snarled dangerously. His eyes were steel grey as he glared at John threateningly. Unrecognisingly. He sank back into his bed, but now his eyes were fixed on John, reminding him not a little of a caged animal warily watching its jailer. John didn't think he knew the man at all.  
>"Get. Out", Sherlock hissed.<br>But John stayed. Of course he did. He sat crouched in his corner, between the wardrobe and the door and couldn't tear his eyes away from Sherlock. Who, in turn, inched away to the very edge of his bed, as far away as possible from John, only blinked when his eyes had become too dry. His look spelled mistrust loud and clear. John could only guess, hope, that he was lost in his head. Because if the alternative meant that Sherlock actually felt what his look and posture implied, then John had no idea how to handle that. There was just so much _hate_. He'd never been at the receiving end of that look.  
>He kept quiet and waited.<br>Gradually, he watched Sherlock coming back into himself. It was one of the scariest things John ever witnessed. He had been completely gone, been somewhere else entirely and John didn't even know that was possible outside of hypnosis. He figured Sherlock had somehow put himself into that state, but he didn't want to linger too long on the notion.  
>"John," Sherlock whimpered. He was trembling and John thought it was save to talk to him now.<p>

"Are you okay?" he asked weakly. What he wanted to do was to walk over there and pull the other man into his arms and not let go before Sherlock told him to or maybe never. Whichever happened first. Instead, he stayed exactly where he was and counted the minutes.  
>It didn't take all that long for Sherlock to get up and look around uncertainly. His gaze came back to last on John every second or so but he actually waited until John reached out his hand for him. Sherlock took it eagerly and John pulled him down onto the floor next to him where Sherlock promptly curled into a tight little ball and sank into John's side. Automatically John wound his arms around his torso to pull him even closer. He must have hurt Sherlock but loosening his grip on the man was not an option.<br>"I've got you," he said, and then he said it again, and then over and over again, hoping it was reassuring. Tentatively, he started carding his fingers through Sherlock's dark curls and when he noticed that he seemed to relax into the touch, he employed more pressure.  
>It was uncomfortable, and their legs were in the way until John pulled and manoeuvred them so that his were bracketing Sherlock's. Still there was the hardwood floor and the cement wall but there was nothing to be done about those. Sherlock shivered, John thought he might be crying actually. He tried to remember what his professor at uni had told them when they had that seminar about bedside manners. Never had John had trouble recalling how to placate an upset person, but when it was Sherlock, his head was empty. He just tried what always worked on himself, which meant talking about what the hell was going on was straight out of the question, whereas talking, just talking, was right. And so he began.<p>

"You know what I thought the moment I saw you? I thought Stamford must be mad! _That guy won't share with me. He's gorgeous!_" John allowed a little chuckle in his voice and paused, reminiscing the day. "You have no idea what the light did to your skin, I could've sworn you weren't from this world. And then you asked for his phone and he didn't have it, and all I could think was,_ give him yours_! _He'll have to come over and acknowledge you. He'll look at you and if you smile, he will smile back_." Another laugh here. "But of course you didn't, as if you would ever smile at a stranger. And I felt so stupid and thought, _yep, that's it. You've blown your one chance_. But then, oho Sherlock, then you blew me away. Everything happened so fast and then you spew a million words a minute and ... and riding crops ... and your creepy psychopath smile and then you winked at me, Sherlock, you _winked_, and I thought, I _knew_, I should be put off but Christ, you noticed me, didn't you? I was so sure you hadn't even looked at me but I was wrong, wasn't I? And I was so happy because I got to see you again. It lasted only a minute but after that minute I knew you were a man who wasn't easily impressed and I was so proud because I had passed your little test, whatever that was. It was one minute, Sherlock, one minute after which I knew that my life had been irrevocably changed. One minute." John shook his head in incredulity and Sherlock felt every movement against his own. He had grown calmer with every sentence of John's tale, listening raptly. Of course he had read John's description of their first meeting on his blog, but then John had never told the story quite like this. "Do you have any idea how many people I have met, in all my life, that have changed it in just one minute?" It was a rhetoric question and John didn't wait for an answer. "It's only ever been you. I wish I could say the same about Mary, God knows I do, but that would be a lie. No, it's always been you. Only ever you, Sherlock." John paused again and let his hand roam over the warm body in his arm, so tenderly as if it would break under his touch. Absent-mindedly he kissed Sherlock's forehead, once, twice, he brushed the hair out of his face and kissed the lid of his eye. John tipped Sherlock's head up so that he could look at him before he leant down to kiss him on the mouth at last, a sweet press of lips against lips, from which heat was missing and love was present in abundance.

Afterwards, they stayed on the floor in that corner of the room long after John's bum had fallen asleep. He held Sherlock and Sherlock allowed himself to be held like a child. When he started playing, no, _inspecting _John's hand and fingers, John took the chance to observe him closely while he was thus distracted. He knew there were scars under Sherlock's clothes, he had felt them with his own hands. He could just imagine what had left them there. He also knew that Sherlock still craved his touch as well hidden as that desire was. Sherlock had always been shy about his advances and with Mary now in the picture, was it really that strange that he should be even more covert about his intentions? What John didn't want to understand was how a man that two years ago would become intensely aroused from a kiss and a grope could now be unaffected by a hand on his penis. But understanding dawned on him whether John wanted to or not. He buried his face in Sherlock's hair and cried silently about what had been done to his beautiful, perfect man.

February 2014

"I thought about it and I ... would really ... like ... it if you went to see someone," John told Sherlock the next time. The other man looked up from where he was sitting at the table in the kitchen, his face expressionless but this eyes full of ridicule. He didn't say a word which made John even more uncomfortable which, truthfully, was the objective. Sherlock figured he could make John so uncomfortable that he would drop the subject and regret ever bringing it up, resulting in him sweeping it under the rug where all sentiment rightfully belonged.

"A therapist," John explained. His shoulders were drawn back, making him gain an inch or two in height and making him seem broader than he actually was. "To talk," he added after Sherlock didn't even react with one of his trademark snorts, just turned his attention back to whatever he was doing before John had interrupted him. John didn't let that faze him. He knew Sherlock's methods.

"Why ever would I do that?" Sherlock asked when the silence rang too loud and he took either pity on John or feared the man would leave if he didn't pay him any heed. John opened his mouth, but before he could say a single word, Sherlock continued. "It obviously has done you no good, really, John, I wonder when you've become the advocate of psychotherapy."

"Sherlock-"

"And it begs the question, who? Who would I see? Your Ella?"

"God no, you'd despise her."

"_You_ despise her," Sherlock said pointedly. "I don't have the time to look for a therapist. One, I might add, I could confide in, one who wouldn't think I'm crazy when I tell them what I have done over the past two years. You see, John, it is quite futile."

John was pawing his feet and avoiding Sherlock's eyes. "I thought Mycroft could recommend someone," he said quietly.

"Mycroft?"

"Yeah. He probably has a whole bunch of specially trained psychiatrists at his disposal." John dared meeting Sherlock's eyes again. What he saw there was surprise.

"You've really given this some thought?" Sherlock asked incredulous. "Why?"

"Because I care about you, you berk, and I want you to be happy."

This time, Sherlock really did snort. He got up from the table, too agitated to do anything but pace about the flat. "Happy," he said disgustedly. "I am never _happy_. Wasn't before, won't be in the future."

John stayed in the kitchen. Now that Sherlock had left, he braced his arms on the empty table, leaning over it and took a deep, steadying breath.

"Sherlock," he said weakly. The man addressed strode back into the room. He was fluttered, insulted and felt attacked.

"No. You listen to me," Sherlock said to him, pointing a finger at him. "I don't claim to understand how it has got into your head that I would ... need ... to talk about anything to anyone. But I can tell you that you can go right ahead and forget about it. There's _nothing _that needs discussing, do you hear me? John?" John shook his head and huffed a mirthless laugh. "This is about that night, isn't it?" Sherlock asked. The volume of his voice rose and now, unattractive heights had crept into his usually smooth baritone, highlighted by matching flecks of red high on his cheekbones. "It's because I didn't want to fuck you, isn't it? You think that something horrible _must have_ happened to me, because you can't simply conceive of literally _any other reason_ why I wouldn't jump at the opportunity to fuck you. Because suddenly you're the expert on sexuality. And fidelity, I suppose. Pray tell, John, how is your little, happy, heterosexual engagement going these days? We haven't talked about that in ages. Is there anything you'd like to share? How's Mary?"

"Are you done?" John asked coolly and seemingly unimpressed, but boiling just under the surface. He had never learnt to keep this emotions out of his eyes.

"For now." They stood with the table between them, both leant over their respective ends and gripping at the edges for support.

"Good. Because I'm not an expert on much, but I know you."

"You really don't."

"Will you shut the fuck up, for one moment, please?" Sherlock scowled at John over the length of the table, but shut up, mercifully. "Great. Good. I ... know you," John said empathetically. "You begged me not to fall asleep, then, and I know why. You slept in my bed thirty-seven times and we tested a dozen different lubes together and not once, not a _single bloody time_, _Sherlock_, did you have problems with your libido. You think I'm unobservant, but I can tell a flaccid cock from an erect one, especially when it's pressed into _my fucking arse_. So yeah, I can tell that something horrible must've happened when you go from being the man that got a stiffy when I accidentally touched him under the covers to the man who cries in his sleep and throws a wobbly when I tell him to relax because he can't get it up."

"I have nothing to talk about!" Sherlock bellowed.

"Well I have!" John yelled right back. He took a breath and looked down at his hands where they grabbed at the table, the knuckles white against his skin. His next words were forcedly softer.

"And I'm going to ask Mycroft for help-"

"No you won't!"

"Believe me, I will."

"I forbid it."

John's mouth fell open. He tilted his head as his tongue ran over the edge of his upper teeth before he huffed another laugh. He shook his head, focussed his attention once more on his hands.

"You lost," John said without looking at Sherlock, but he had his complete attention, "every right to forbid my anything the moment you jumped off that building." Slowly he raised his eyes until they met Sherlock's. Sherlock was seething.

"You said you forgave me," he said in voice so icy John swore he could feel it in his skin.

"I'll never be able to forgive you for what you have put me through," John told him and Sherlock didn't doubt that he meant every word.

He grabbed the edge of the table and threw it over. Glass and crockery clattered on the floor and against every surface. Instinctively, John raised his arms to shield his head and turned away from the flying objects, so that he had his back turned on Sherlock when the man walked past him in long strides and out of the door. The next thing John heard after the noise had died down in the flat was the sound of the downstairs door being thrown shut.

"Fuck!" he yelled and kicked at the nearest chair. For once, he didn't care what the neighbours might think.

October 2014

"Tell me about Mary."

"I met her at work, you already know that. She started about, what? A month after I did? It was only natural that we should spend our breaks together, we were both new and didn't know anyone. She was flirting with me a lot, but you know, I was ... I was ... I was still mourning you and I didn't flirt back. It was actually she who told me about the group, she made me go and it helped. It helped a lot."

"What group?"

"The, God, this is embarrassing. The self-help group. We were a bunch of people who have lost someone. Mostly spouses, you know. We talked, and, and it was good. There was this bloke who's lost his wife five years ago and he was still grieving. It was good because everyone told me that I should get over you, that's it's been a year, and then I saw those people and it's true what they're saying. Everybody mourns on their own schedule. I could just talk about how much I missed you and they all understood. No-one told that it was wrong that I still loved you." John was silent for a very long time.

"You wanted to know about Mary. Sorry I got sidetracked."

"No, it's all right."

"Yeah. Anyway. She kept asking me out and she was always so understanding when I turned her down. But she persevered. I thought she really liked me. It was nice. To know that someone was so interested in me. I- Four months, it took me four months before I asked her out." He laughed.

"That first date, I kept checking my phone. Every few minutes or so. I thought that if you were still alive, you'd text me then. Like you always did when I was on a date, you remember? I thought that this was the ultimate test. _If Sherlock is still alive, he's going to show himself._ Now or never." He cleared his throat.

"Well, you know what happened. Or, or didn't happen.

"I went home, I was devastated. I didn't spend a moment thinking about Mary and I didn't even care, because that was the night I finally accepted you're dead. I- it hurt, you know? But I accepted it.

"She called me a few days later and asked how I was. I felt so ashamed and was so thankful that she gave me a second chance. I messed up so much those first few months with her, but Mary was always so understanding. She never got mad and she asked me about you. I trusted her." That was his excuse, he begged Sherlock to understand how much it meant to him.

"Everybody else kept telling me how I should stop obsessing about you, but she never stopped encouraging me to talk about you. She became my rock. I couldn't talk to the people I knew before you died because they didn't understand me. She was the only one. I lost contact to everybody else but that didn't even matter, because I had her.

"But I came around eventually. I realised that living in the past wouldn't magically make you come alive again. And I've fallen in love with her and I wanted to be a better man for her. She didn't deserve to be with someone who was still in love with another man. I decided to start over, to move on.

"I went to your grave to say goodbye and she was there with me. I asked for a moment alone with you and I told you, _Sherlock_, I said. _This is Mary. I think you'd like her. She is clever and has a strange kind of humour and she makes my life a little bit more colourful and please forgive me, but you weren't there to stop me falling in love, were you? So it really is your fault. I'm going to marry her and I wanted you to be the first to know. On the off chance that you can hear me, whereever it is you are, know that I've tried to come to you but I couldn't, they wouldn't let me go. Please, just promise to wait for me and don't be angry when I come, okay? I'll see you very soon._" Tears were falling from his eyes. He needed a moment to collect himself.

"That was the last time I went to see you. I-. I don't know what happened afterwards. I just know that suddenly you were back, it felt as if I had called you. But I was so hurt and I didn't know up from down? And Mary told me that she would understand if I went back to you, sometimes I felt like she _urged _me to go back to you. But I felt safer with her. That's all I can say. Mary _understood_."

"Did she know we were sleeping together?"

"I told her." John shrugged helplessly. "I never lied to her about you. She was the only one who always listened."


	3. In therapy: February - August 2014

**In therapy: February - August 2014**

February 2014

John did of course talk to Mycroft. He knew of the Holmes brothers opinion of psychiatry and felt uncomfortable doing it, but saw no way around. Mycroft was clearly aware of his discomfort, but when he heard why John needed a reliable psychiatrist with the highest clearing, he looked bothered. He didn't give him a name straight away, but when he did get back to John, he did so with the first appointment already arranged.

"I trust you to know what's best for my brother," he told, maybe warned, John on the phone.

Getting Sherlock to actually go was another story altogether. John pleaded, begged, coaxed, negotiated, threatened (half-heartedly) and tried to explain why it was a good idea. Nothing worked. The only thing it brought about was that Sherlock treated him with great apprehension whenever they met. In the end, John did it the old fashioned way of picking him up when the day came and dragging him into a taxi still in his pyjamas.

"Please just give it a try, for me, please? If you still think it's a waste of your time after the first session I promise you won't have to go again," he explained to a sulking Sherlock who sat in a chair with his arms crossed adorably juvenile when they were in the waiting room. The door to the session room opened and a middle aged man came out.

"Dr Watson?" he said reading from a clipboard.

"That's me." John stood up. "But it's actually for my friend, Sherlock Holmes?" He pointed at Sherlock in the background who had sat up straight and had oddly stopped sulking. John got it.

"He called and changed the appointment, right?" he sighed. He rubbed his forehead. "Look, ignore it. We're here for him. I'm just dropping him off." The doctor was completely unperturbed.

"Oh yes, that's correct. Mr Holmes the Older warned me that would happen, so when he" the doctor pointed at Sherlock, "called we changed it to relationship therapy. I think we better start with you to give a good example, won't you agree?" He looked at John with cold, calculating eyes that were not at all unpleasant and John knew he had lost. He went back to his chair to get his jacket and shoot a glaring last look at Sherlock. Sherlock smirked.

"Oh, don't be like that," he mocked. "There's nothing to be ashamed about needing therapy," he repeated the exact words John had used back to him.

March 2014

"I asked you here today," Dr Loughton said, "so you could help me get a picture of Sherlock's libido before all of this started." John chanced a quick glance at the man discussed to gauge his reaction, but Sherlock seemed torn between bored and indignant.

"I'm here," he reminded both of them and adopted his unimpressed demeanour.

"Is this … okay? Would you rather leave?" John asked, because God knew he wouldn't enjoy hearing what other people had to say about his sex drive.

"I'd rather not talk about it at all. But if we must, then I'm staying," Sherlock told him, another gentle reminder that John had forced him into the therapy Sherlock deigned unimportant. John only nodded and turned his attention back to the therapist. He wouldn't go into this discussion, again, now.

"Alright," he said, "How- What do you want to know?"

"Sherlock said he wasn't overly interested in sex before and that his current problems are just an extension of this disinterest. But from what he said I gathered that he nonetheless enjoyed physical intimacy with you. Would you classify him as asexual?"

John hated this. Talking about sex, with someone else than his partner, felt uncomfortable. Yet he knew why he had begged and persuaded Sherlock into this in the first place and for his sake at least John would muster his shyness.

"No," he said. "I mean, at first, yes, that's what I thought, too. He never showed any interest in dating, men or women. I- From the first day I thought he might be gay, but I don't know? He never brought anybody home or went out, as far as I could tell, so yeah, I thought he might be."

"But you're no longer thinking that?"

"No. Absolutely not. He, he is shy, okay? I would say inexperienced. I know I was his first, the, you know." John cleared his throat, the doctor nodded his understanding and wrote something down. "Anyway. He always seemed to enjoy sex. It wasn't that I had to coax him."

"What makes you think he enjoyed it?"

"Well, for one, he, God, he could always achieve orgasm. He was so easy to arouse. That's actually part of why I thought therapy was a good idea, because he no longer is."

"Did he ever initiate?"

"Yes. But … in his own way. You wouldn't know it if you didn't know him."

"I don't understand."

"He was too shy to just ask for it, and he isn't one for the grand gestures. So no kissing, no touching. I had to learn to read him. When he was in the mood, he would become calmer. Nicer. Trying to get in my good graces, I guess. He'd look at me more often and differently. I'd call him over and he'd sit much closer. Then I'd try kissing him and see if I got a reaction."

"So, you always took the first step?"

"Physically, yes."

"Is there another way?"

"Well, often he signalled his interest first." The scratching of the pen on paper seemed to disagree with his evaluation. They should have got a female therapist. Women were much better versed in the subtlety that is initiating sex.

_Shy_.

John knew that he had something coming for that. Sherlock hated being insulted, and being called shy was definitely an insult. The man had not spoken a word to him since John had used that unfortunate word in connection with Sherlock's attempts to institute sex and it was only much later, after he had gone through every word of that conversation he could remember, that it dawned on him. He expected all manner of punishments, but he was left speechless when he saw what actually happened. Because the next time John came over, Sherlock greeted him wrapped in only a quilt. His hair looked like he had just come out of bed, his cheeks were a lovely shade of pink and his lips bruised red. John had no idea how he had done it or how he had timed John's arrival so precisely, but when he laid eyes on the _creature_, it didn't matter any more, nothing did. Sherlock looked like _sex_.

John took one look at him and sat down in the middle of the couch, his legs spread wide in clear invitation. If that was what he got for insulting Sherlock he should consider doing it more often, maybe.

"Come here then," he said in an infuriatingly indulgent tone of voice with a deep undertone and reached his hand out for Sherlock to take. Sherlock straddled his lap instead of sitting down next to him because he was proving that he wasn't shy. Until suddenly, he was. His quilt had fallen open a bit when he spread his legs to accommodate John's between them and he fiddled nervously with it. John chuckled softly. When Sherlock met his eyes again, he saw to his immense relief that he wasn't laughing at him.

"I'll tell him next time," John said. His fingers were dancing over the edges of the quilt, not over Sherlock's skin, but almost. The fine hair on his chest and stomach was moving in the air that the movement produced. "Dr Loughton. I'll tell him you were waiting for me as good as naked. Wrapped up in a sheet. Like a present. _My_ present, waiting to be unwrapped. What else shall I tell him?" John's eyes had followed the trail of his hands down along the quilt until they left his field of vision when they grabbed at Sherlock's arse to pull him still closer and he looked the man in the eyes again. Sherlock moaned quietly. The fabric was too thick to really feel anything, but his imagination and anticipation supplied what his nerve endings couldn't. John was waiting patiently for him to take the first step to the next level. Normally, with Sherlock waiting for him like the picture of debauchery, he wouldn't have hesitated. John had waited months for this if he was being honest. They've come close to having sex twice, but it hadn't been like this. The timing, the setting, _them_, everything was perfect this time and John's heart beat excitedly in anticipation.

With a stuttering breath, Sherlock closed his eyes and inclined his head, slowly, ever so slowly, leaning down and giving John all the time in the world to retract even if he should have known by now that John was only waiting for him. He touched his lips to John's in the sweetest, chastest kiss and just kept them there for a minute without movement or pressure. John's mouth twitched into a smile and Sherlock, incited by it, chased the smile to the corners of John's thin lips. His tongue darted out, eager to find the taste that made a smile. When he couldn't find it there, Sherlock let his tongue trace the line of John's bottom lip and then his upper and then he took the plumper bottom one again, sucking it in between his own lips to catalogue the taste of the inside. He accidentally touched John's teeth which prompted John to open his mouth minutely, but Sherlock wasn't ready for that yet. He wasn't done with his lips yet. Alternately, he sucked and bit at his lips until he felt them swell under him and then he kissed them better with a hundred tiny, well-placed kisses.

"Christ, where did you learn to do that?" John was breathing rapidly underneath him. Over the last couple of minutes, he had practically melted into the sofa, utterly relaxed but ready to take actions into his own hands at the drop of a hat. There was only his jeans between them where his groin pressed into Sherlock and even if he had wanted to he wouldn't have been able to hide the beginnings of his arousal.

"I had a good teacher," Sherlock replied flirtily.

"Hm, I hope you're talking about me here. I'm not sure I can share you." Sherlock stilled. John rattled on obliviously.

"Probably kill them in a jealous fit." It was here that he first noticed Sherlock's stillness. "Don't worry, I'll make it clever." He chuckled at his own joke but Sherlock's unease was palpable, especially when he climbed off John.

"Sherlock?" John asked uncertainly. Absent-mindedly he smoothed his clothes and sat up straight, poised for a discussion where seconds ago he was ready for sex.

"You should go home," Sherlock told him. He went to his room and just like that, John was dismissed.

Also, quite lost at what the fuck had just happened.

April 2014

"Why don't you describe your sex to John, Sherlock? Tell him what you told me?" Dr Loughton was prompting Sherlock in their next session. There were many differences in the stories as far as the men had told him. The doctor knew the men had never talked about their feelings with each other, but it was bizarre to hear them talk, each on his own, about their sex and notice the very different perceptions thereof. That was not unusual when dealing with couples and it was always a good way to start therapy by making the partners aware of those differences.

"We never had sex," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. Dr Loughton, of course, had heard that statement before. For John, however, this was news. He knitted his eyebrows together in confusion.

"What?" John asked confused. "Yes we had!"

"No," Sherlock insisted. "You made love to me. But we never had sex." John was even more baffled.

"I don't understand. Isn't that the same?"

"I should think not. Sex should involve both partners, be passionate. But with us it was always you being _gentle_ to me." Sherlock said it with more than a trace of disgust in his voice and John could only shake his head in ever deepening bewilderment.

"Wait, hold on a second, are you saying I used you? Did he tell you I used him?" John asked facing the doctor. "Is this what this is about?"

"Don't be ridiculous, of course I'm not saying that."

"Then what the hell are you saying?"

In the artificial light of Dr Loughton's office and under his silent supervision, the words came so easily.

"You never let me reciprocate," Sherlock said, his voice straining with the effort of keeping out any trace of accusation.

"I couldn't," John told him. He held his gaze but his eyes were tired and so sad. "You didn't want a relationship. I couldn't let you do that and allow myself to believe, to believe that you wanted more."

"But I did!" Sherlock sounded exhausted, as if they had been over this topic a thousand times before, with the same arguments, the same words and the same going-in-circles.

"Not like I wanted. Not like I needed. You knew that. You know it even now. This is why you want me to marry Mary, isn't it? Because you think she can give me what you can't." Dr Loughton had asked John about that. Couples therapy, where one partner was set to marry a third party, was, to say the least, highly unusual.

_"What do you hope to get you of this?" he had asked John in the beginning. John shrugged, tiredly. In recent times, he was always tired._

_"I don't know," he confessed._

_"We need to set a goal. If we don't have a goal, we could as well be having coffee and talk about the weather."_

_"I... want him... to... be better, I suppose."_

_"Think on it and get back to me."_

_He had asked Sherlock the same question. Sherlock wasn't as hesitant with providing an answer._

_"To get him off my back," he has said coldly, clinically._

_"You go to great lengths to get rid of him."_

_"I don't want to get rid of him, I want him to leave me alone," Sherlock had clarified. He had started to believe the doctor was being obtuse on purpose because no-one in his brother's employ was stupid. Then, he had just looked at Sherlock, asking for an explanation with his eyes. Sherlock had sighed._

_"He seems to believe that I am somehow damaged, that I need to work through some issues. So I will sit here and waste time and by the end of it he will believe that I am magically cured and get married and he will forget all this ever happened."_

_"You want him to get married?"_

_"Of course I want him to. What was the sense of all this if he isn't happy?"_

"I didn't know you loved me."

"You thwarted every attempt I made to show you." Sherlock was bitter, still, even three years after.

"It was ever just sex," John said helplessly. "I- when we had sex, yes. I didn't let you. I don't know what I expected you would do, but I thought, if I showed you how much I cared, how much you meant to me, I suppose I thought that some day you would come around, see it. Deduce it. And then you'd fall in love with me, too. But until then, it was the only way I knew how to show you."

"I thought you didn't trust me."

"I think ... I didn't. I couldn't tell you how I felt, so I showed you. In bed, it was the only place where you would let me lead."

"Stupid."

"Well, thanks a lot."

"I thought you didn't want me. You treated me like some kind of blushing virgin, a delicate flower that had to be convinced with kisses to spread her legs. I felt like a child. You didn't dare touch me hard as if you were afraid that I would bruise when I wanted bruises to show the world that you were _mine _and I was yours. I wanted you to fuck me and you made love to me. To placate me. You never wanted me enough to shove me against the wall and take what you needed because, I knew, there was nothing I had that you needed. But you knew I needed you and because you were you, you gave it to me. _Gently_."

"No no no that's not true," John moaned. He blocked out the room with both hands over his eyes.

"That's what it felt like to me! You never kissed me just because you wanted to. We had sex because of a lube experiment, for Christ's sake! I asked and you came. Without, you know, you actually coming." Sherlock was pacing the large session room. He had forgotten the doctor, who sat quietly in a corner just observing the pair of them, who didn't even take notes, afraid the sound might snap them out of their trance like state where they believed to be alone.

"Passion, John! I've seen you snog countless women, yet you wouldn't even allow yourself to come in my presence. When you were hard, I knew you were, but when I _begged _you to fuck me you always made excuses. And you wanted to, don't even pretend! You just didn't want _me_." Sherlock sank down in a corner. He pulled his knees against his chest and crossed his arms over them to lay his head against. "That's what I thought, at least," he whispered into his limbs, barely audible.

Helplessly, John sat against the armrest of the couch they had started up on. Unconsciously he had become as small as possible, sinking into the fabric and trying to become one with it, invisible. There was shock on his face and an ocean of unshed tears in his eyes.

"But I loved you," he said, insistent, petulant. "I _did_."

"Well," said Sherlock, "Did. Past tense."

Afterwards, John accompanied Sherlock home. He felt numb. The thing about therapy was, the thing he hated most, they spent so much time in the past. But there was no way of going back there, was there? They, he, had made so many mistakes then and all he could do now was apologise for them. As if that helped. That didn't turn back time. What could it change?

Without John noticing, they had climbed up the stairs and shut the door to the flat behind him. Sherlock stood in front of him, looking down at him and searching his face for what was on John's mind. John snapped out of his trance. His eyes met Sherlock's and he shrugged, helplessly, and shook his head. Sherlock took a step towards him. He bent his head a little, just taking the first step, like always and John fell into the pattern so easily.

His hand closed around the nape of his neck and he pulled Sherlock the last few centimetres down to him, meeting him in the middle. John was sad and exhausted and all he wanted was to soothe the wounds Sherlock had laid open in therapy today, but this wasn't what this was about this time.

The first kiss was gentle, reacquainting their lips with each other. Soft and chapped and dry against wet. John pulled stronger. He felt his fingers dig into the thick tendons in Sherlock's neck and for the first time, he didn't stop himself. That was what he wanted, wasn't it? Being taken with no regards to him? His fingernails sank into the soft skin and he knew he was leaving marks. He smashed their lips together, teeth just behind the flesh and he could feel them. He moved his lips and moved Sherlock's at the same time, ran his tongue over the other man's teeth, teasing them apart. He lost no time in invading the space, mindless of Sherlock, letting his tongue run over everything it could reach. When that wasn't enough, he sucked Sherlock's bottom lip in between his and bit down, not softly. He tasted blood and greedily lapped at the drop before shoving his tongue back into Sherlock's mouth and tinting his tongue with his own blood, mixed with John's saliva. Sherlock made a sound of surprise.

"Tell me you want this, Sherlock," John said, mumbled, because he didn't let go of the other man's lips. "Tell me this is what you want, please." He had both hands on Sherlock's hips where he buried his fingers into the fabric of his shirt and trousers, holding him in place with so much force. John didn't push or pull but Sherlock was held in place, unable to move away under the force of John's small, gentle hands.

"Say it," John urged and finally tore this lips away just to put them to Sherlock's jaw an instant later. Nipping along the bone up to his ear and then down to mouth over the hollow over his pulse point. He didn't hide his teeth, let Sherlock feel them there, a threat, for now.

"Say it," he repeated and bid down. Sherlock's knees buckled under him.

"Yes!" he yelled. He laid his hands onto the smaller man's shoulder and held on for dear life, holding himself up.

"Good," John smirked, his lips still on Sherlock's neck. Sherlock felt it was not a nice smile.

John took his right hand and pressed it against the already prominent bulge in his trousers.

"God, I'm so hard," he groaned. He placed Sherlock's hand, showed him how he was supposed to massage, and left it there. Helplessly, Sherlock repeated the exact same motions over and over again, not knowing what else to do.

"You make me so hard, Sherlock," John said again, breathing directly into his ear, and biting down on the earlobe. Sherlock whimpered, making an involuntary fist over the tent in John's trousers, squeezing too hard and was on the verge of apologising, when John hummed appreciatively.

"God, I need you naked," John said. His voice was rough and smooth at the same time, a low purr, dangerous and smirking, and when he undressed Sherlock, he didn't waste time. He forced his hands between the opening between two buttons of his shirt and tore, sending buttons flying in every direction. When the part that was tucked into Sherlock's trousers didn't budge, John yanked it out and ripped it apart, too. Sherlock was speechless. His breath came fast and heavy and his eyes were wide open, twitching between John's hands and John's face, never staying in one place for a second as he wanted to observe everything.

His shirt hang open, under his jacket and coat. Now would be the time to take those off, he thought, but John didn't waste time on that either. He was already on Sherlock's belt and a moment later, on his zip and button. Roughly, he shoved the fabric down, along with Sherlock's underpants. Down to his mid thighs, he had no patience to go further. John's left hand grabbed Sherlock by the hair and pulled his head back down for a bruising kiss while his right slipped under the layers of his shirt and jackets, to the small of his back to slide down to cover the crack of his arse with his palm all to push their groins together, Sherlock's undressed against the rough denim of John's jeans. Just as he pushed his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, his dry finger pushed into his arse. The different feelings, saliva-wet tongue in hot, damp mouth and warm, rough finger in hot, tight, dry arse made Sherlock yelp and jump. John chuckled lowly in the back of his throat. He pulled his finger out.

"Just like I remembered," he said darkly. There was something in his eyes that made Sherlock simultaneously want to close his to block it out and sink into John's arms. For a moment, John mustered him, undoubtedly reading every thought in Sherlock's head, as little as there were then. He did close his eyes to him just in case.

"Where's the lube?" John asked and he sounded a little gentler than before. Sherlock shook his head.

"Don't need," he stuttered, still refusing to look at John.

"Yes, we do," John spoke over him. He gave a shove and Sherlock sank to his knees. Surprised, he opened his eyes to stare up at the man over him.

"Lose those pants," John said and stepped away. Before, they had a bottle of lube stored in the cabinet by the window and that was where he was headed now. "Keep the coat," he added a moment later, smiling dangerously sexy over his shoulder as he opened the drawer and after a little searching, found there the old bottle. It would have to do. The liquid still looked clear.

Sherlock sank to the ground fully, spreading his coat under him and shuffling out of his pants and trousers, forgetting his shoes for a moment and swearing under his breath when that caused a problem. When John turned back around, he could just see them fly through the room and hear them hit the ground somewhere. Before him, Sherlock was naked from the waist down. One leg was stretched out, the other bent at the knee. They were spread lightly. His shirt, ripped open, had fallen down on one side only. He bent his head over to look at John at the over side of the room, the motion making him arch his back, his stomach sticking out, shoulders on the ground, neck over-stretched, gorgeous, almost black eyes searching for John, almost afraid-looking at him, but impatiently, needing. It took John's breath away. This was what he could have had, it struck him. A wanton, writhing, naked demi-god, waiting for him to defile him.

Efficiently, John undressed, holding Sherlock's gaze all the time except when he pulled his shirt over his head. He got to his knees and crawled over to Sherlock, aware that his cock, stiff and full of blood, hung obscenely between his legs. He came to stand next to Sherlock, eye-level with the man's cock. Sherlock wasn't hard, John didn't take it as an insult, was delighted when he touched him and felt the beginnings of an erection. He knew Sherlock wanted him. His eyes had begged for John. John delved down on him, took his cock as far as he could and lavished licks on it. He felt him get harder on his tongue and sucked, creating a vacuum that must have been almost painful. Sherlock did moan.

"Suck me," John commanded. He felt Sherlock's hand come tentatively to rest on both sides of his thighs, tugging. John got the hint and stepped over him, minding his arms. He shuffled into position until he hung over Sherlock's mouth while he could still blow the man at the same time. John had never done it in this position. He almost fainted from the feeling when Sherlock's tongue touched his hot skin for only the second time ever. This, John decided, was heaven. With new fervour, he went down on Sherlock. The man was half hard by now and it was easy, so so easy to lose himself in it, the feeling of damp hotness on him and the taste of _Sherlock_ on his tongue, salty, sweaty, bitter and rounded, it was too easy to lose himself in the moment. But John didn't, because John was on a mission.

The lube in his hand reminded him and he forced his senses to the task at hand, that was, fuck Sherlock until he forgot his own name and John's, too. Smearing a large drop of lube over Sherlock's arsehole, John got down to work. He kept his mouth on his cock and his fingers circled the little hole that looked so innocuously small and but could take so much he knew from experience. The tip of his finger dipped in and spread the liquid around, pulling and stretching, never going in far. In the back of his head John registered Sherlock's sucks and his tongue against his cock and he gave it a moment to enjoy, moaning, the vibration going from his throat straight to Sherlock's dick, making Sherlock moan in return and John shiver violently when he experienced the same thing. This, John thought absently, they should have done years ago. With a beautifully responsive Sherlock, to take the edge off and make him come before John would bury himself deep inside him, would have been a feast. Now, he only had a half-hard cock and a hole that refused to relax to content with.

John forced that thought out of his mind and shoved two fingers into Sherlock. The man bucked up against him and choked on his cock. Carefully, John withdrew and scrambled around, before Sherlock was done coughing, he had repositioned between his legs, two fingers in him again working like a piston. There was so much lube it was running down John's hand and dripping on the carpet and still John applied more when he pushed in the third finger. Sherlock's erection, poor to begin with, was failing. John just had to ask.

"Are you okay?" he said with a searching look at Sherlock's face.

"Yes," Sherlock stuttered. This, at least, was known territory. Sherlock always stuttered during sex. Anything else would have been worrisome.

"Good. Great." John took his legs and put them up in the air, leaning them against his shoulders. He aligned his pelvis with Sherlock's arse and took his cock in hand to guide it into the other man. With still enough lube on his hand, he stroked himself a couple of times and went in for the kill. With one sharp thrust, John buried himself balls-deep, Sherlock clenching around him to push him back out and pull him further in at the same time. He yelped.

"Okay?" John called at him, stilling for a moment and catching his breath. With eyes shut tightly, Sherlock nodded. John began fucking him in earnest.

Sherlock wanted passion, whatever he understood as passion. So John gave it to him. He forget the man attached to the hot tight hole that was having an iron grip on his cock and rammed in just to pull out as far as he could to then ram in again. Sherlock was shoved around on the ground until John pulled him back in against him, his hands on his hips leaving angry violet marks there, so hard did he grab him. He was bent over Sherlock and pressing his own knees into his chest. Sweat was dripping from John's forehead onto Sherlock and every once in a while he lost grip of his hips under his wet hands. John lost balance and fell forward, pushing Sherlock's legs aside and Sherlock had to wrap them around his waist to keep them both in place. John's hands wound up under his shoulders where he was pulling Sherlock in against his chest, both men so wet from sweat they were squelching as John rutted against him. He gave a couple more thrusts and came, seated deep inside of Sherlock and then twitched on top of him for a few moments. Sherlock felt his come spray against his innermost walls from where it wanted to get out but the way was blocked by John's cock. It was only when John, ever so careful, pulled out that a whole river of fluids, semen and lube alike, came running out of Sherlock's arse onto the rug below. He helped Sherlock put his legs on the ground where they trembled from exhaustion but all the while John didn't leave his place on Sherlock's chest.

At last, John asked, "Did I hurt you?" while his hand was running soothing paths up and down Sherlock's side. Sherlock shook his head, not trusting his voice for an answer.

"You didn't come?" It was more of a statement than a question because for all the wetness between them, it didn't feel sticky like ejaculate. Once more, Sherlock only shook his head. John lifted his head to look at him and Sherlock couldn't stay silent any more.

"John-," he croaked, an apology on his tongue that John kissed away. The kiss, this time, was tender without all the urgency from before. John's tongue ran over the wound his teeth had left on Sherlock's lip earlier as if he could lick it away.

"Don't apologise," John whispered to him. He got onto his elbows to bring some distance between their faces to look at Sherlock from a more comfortable distance. "Don't ever apologise for something that is not your fault."

"What if it was?" Sherlock was so quiet. John shuffled a bit on top of him to give him more room to breathe but kept his head on his shoulder.

"We can't change the past now," he said equally quiet because that was what he had learned today so bitterly. "But for what it's worth, I've wanted you, every day of my life, every week, month, year, for as long as I've known you. And don't ever doubt that. Sherlock Holmes, don't think for a second that I ever did anything but love you with all my heart."

Sherlock kept quiet. It struck John how much had changed in all those years. Before, he would have kissed John on the head after such a declaration. Now, he didn't even touch him. John could say a million words all of the same nature and Sherlock would still doubt the truth of his feelings or how well he deserved them. Realising that hurt.

"What are we going to do now?" Sherlock whispered and maybe it was the volume, but he sounded close to tears.

"Whatever you want," John told him and hoped that they both wanted the same thing. But they didn't. They never did.

"_I love Mary but I want to be with Sherlock. What I want is to make the right decision, the one that will make all of us happiest._

"_But most I want him to be healthy. There are things, I know, that he doesn't talk about with me that need to get out. I want him to address those things and to put them to rest. I worry about him all the time and I want to stop worrying, because he is safe. I want him to be safe."_

"_John has to be happy. He has to realise that I risked everything for him to be happy. He __owes__ me his happiness."_

May 2014

John was in a good mood. He sat down on the sofa and pulled a surprised Sherlock into his lap. He dropped down gracelessly and tried to rearrange himself into a more comfortable position, fidgeting on top of John who laughed at his attempts and his eyes, wide with surprise.

"My beautiful man." John cupped his face in one hand. It made Sherlock stop moving and he focused his attention on John as he leant up to pull Sherlock into a kiss.

"I wanted to talk about sex with you," he murmured while still kissing him. Sherlock groaned in disgust and leant back, breaking the contact.

"Really, John? _The talk_? I'm 37," he said.

John put his hand on his hip and pushed him off his lap, gently, making him slip into the gap between John and the arm of the sofa, his legs over John's. With surprising efficiency, John pulled a little and in a moment was between Sherlock's legs, Sherlock's back over the arm, making him arch deliciously into John. Sherlock's hands came up to grab at John's shoulders while John pushed their hips together and sucked lightly at his neck.

"I hadn't noticed. You must be a real expert then, love," John said before he kissed the skin over his Adam's apple. He chuckled when Sherlock swallowed and made it bob under John's lips. John rolled his hips appreciatively.

"You, you call me 'love' a lot, had you realised?" Sherlock said, beginning to sound breathless like every time John had him in a similar position _before_. Distracting John, at least trying to, in an attempt to gain the upper hand for a while.

"No," John replied and continued to nip at Sherlock's neck and his prominent clavicle. Their upper bodies rubbed against each other, a harsh drag of fabric over slowly heating, susceptible skin. "What does that tell you, genius?"

"That, that you like me. A lot."

"Hm. A big lot," John said and looked Sherlock in the eyes. He bent down and kissed him. For a while, the men just kissed, with Sherlock's hips in John's grip and Sherlock clinging to John's shoulders. It was with a show of reluctance that John broke the kiss.

"Sex," he said, reminding himself as much as Sherlock.

"Must we?" Sherlock asked. He sounded pained and looked somewhat spooked. "I had your penis in my bottom three times, don't you think it's a little late for that now?"

"It's not about whose _cock_ goes into whose _arse_," John told him. "Or arses at all. Sex can be anything that makes you feel good. For example, this," John ground their hips together hard to let Sherlock feel the bulge in his trousers and licked his neck at the same time, "this is sex. It's not just about getting off, it should be fun and make you feel great. It's not like on telly, it's not always about flying buttons and ripping clothes off and putting things into orifices. At least that's not what it's about for me." John's hand snuck between their flush bodies. He cupped Sherlock's cock through his trousers and massaged it with two fingers.

"What do you like?" he asked after a while of Sherlock subtly writhing under him. Sherlock didn't answer at first and John had to prompt him again.

"I, I like you. Close. Erm, in me. Sorry, I just do."

"No need to be sorry. Love," John added the endearment with a smile and took another kiss. "What else?"

"When you, when you ... take. What you want."

"Ah, but I'm not good at taking. I'm good at receiving, however." It took a moment and John could see the gears working in Sherlock's usually so quick brain, but at last he swallowed and licked his lips, unsure, and then pushed at John's shoulders until they had reversed their positions. John, on his back on the couch, and Sherlock straddling him, a look of almost grim determination on his face. Almost terrifying. John touched the tips of his fingers against his cheekbone.

"Hey," he said gently, "Fun, remember? Whatever feels good to you." Sherlock just stared at his chest. He was unable to meet John's eye. After a moment, he started unbuttoning his shirt. Sherlock's hand trembled violently when it came into contact with John's naked skin. John trapped it against his heart, willing him to be calm. He could tell Sherlock was out of his depth and wanted to help.

"What do you like when I do it to you?" he whispered. Sherlock stuttered, was looking for words. "Kiss my nipple," John said. Sherlock took a deep breath and dove down, enveloping John's left nipple in a soft, almost not-there, kiss. His eyes shot up to gauge John's reaction. Helpfully, John closed his eyes and arched his back to increase the pressure on him. The hand that was not holding Sherlock's he put into his hair and pressed down gently, telling him to put more force into the caress. Sherlock obliged. He flicked his tongue over the sensitive tissue, remembering what it did to him when John did it.

But after a moment, he became uncomfortable and leant back an inch. He hovered over John's chest not knowing what to do next. John took pity on him and pressed his head against him. Sherlock took position on his chest and held him by the sides.

"Sorry," he whispered. "I'm no good at all this."

"It's alright," John said. He ran his hand over Sherlock's back and waited until he became noticeably calmer. Then, he took his hand by the wrist and slowly slid it between them. He placed it over his cock and spread Sherlock's fingers with his until they pressed against exactly where John wanted them. For a minute or so, John showed him how to manipulate his cock into interest but he gave up when it became obvious that Sherlock wasn't really into it and John, in turn, couldn't get aroused. He took their hands away and Sherlock sat back on his heels, eyes averted. John scrambled away.

"Is it me?" he asked when he was calm himself again. Sherlock shook his head minutely but if John hadn't had his eyes fixed on him he would have never seen it.

"What is it then?" Sherlock withdrew even further into his corner of the couch. He pulled his legs in and wrapped his arms around the knees. John, knowing he was making a mistake but unable to stop himself, slid to the ground in front of him and forced Sherlock to meet his gaze.

"You have to tell me," he implored, "I don't know what to do. I want to help you, is therapy not working? Tell me what I should do!"

"You can't pressure me into it," Sherlock said. His voice was cold even though he looked hurt. He looked as if he was desperately trying to hide the pain but it was proving too much even for him.

"I'm not trying to."

"Yes you are! You always are! It's always about sex with you. And love. We can't ever ... And I _can't _... I don't want to! I wish you would just leave me alone. But instead you make me talk with a stranger, about things I would rather forget, and then you're here and you call me _love_, but you make me do things. And I'd much rather just ... You say you love me but you can't even accept the things I want!"

John forced himself to keep breathing. Fighting every instinct in him to do anything but, he stayed patiently put and searched Sherlock's gaze. When the man would look at him again finally, John tried to smile.

"This is the first time you told me any of that," he said and nodded. "Thank you." He got up to his feet and took a step back. Sherlock's head snapped up and his hand involuntarily grabbed John's wrist. Carefully, John freed his arm from his grip.

"John," he said, a plea hidden in his tone. Again, John could only smile sadly.

"I'm not leaving," he said. He knew exactly what Sherlock was worried about. "Don't you understand, I _never_ left you. I never will. But you have to tell me what you want from me, because I can't read minds, Sherlock. I will try to do whatever it is you want from me, but _you _have to try to tell me what that is. As long as you can't do that I will keep hurting you."

"You're not hurting me," Sherlock said to the floor.

"Yeah well, it feels like it anyway."

For four days, John had taken Mary to a tiny B&B in the west, a short breather before the stress before the wedding would start for real. For days he had a bad conscience. John wasn't usually such a coward and he definitely was no opportunist, but at this stage of his life he felt like both. He knew he was only dragging Mary along for as long as Sherlock hadn't made up his mind and if he were a good man, John would end it with her now. But he didn't. He couldn't explain it even to himself. He only knew his time was running out.

He didn't wait an appropriate time to go and visit his friend after their return. John could only be bothered to drop his bag at home before he took off to see Sherlock. He was almost giddy, a little breathless after he had raced up the seventeen stairs to finally talk to him again.

Sherlock would have snorted at the time it took John to put everything together. Sherlock's attire, his flushed cheeks. His dazed look. The way he was hastily tying his robe. The open laptop.

The crumpled tissues on the table.

"S-sorry," John stuttered and turned his back while his own cheeks flushed red. Giving Sherlock the privacy to make himself presentable. It was while facing the open flat door that it all slot into place and a wave of pain washed over John. All colour drained from his face and it was all he could do to stop his knees from buckling.

"I, I should go," he said. He so desperately wanted to hold onto some sort of dignity.

"John, wait, it's not what it looks like," Sherlock said from close behind him. John wanted to turn around and face him and he wanted to do anything but that at the same time. So, instead he laughed mirthlessly. Broken.

"You wanked," he said and then he did turn around. Sherlock didn't deny it. "And you came."

"John, I can explain," Sherlock said weakly. Again, John laughed. He ran a hand over his face. When he spoke, his voice was rough and loud.

"You told me, you remember? _You simply can't conceive of literally any other reason why I wouldn't want to fuck you_. You said that. And I thought something has happened to you, but you just don't enjoy touching me. Or when I touch you. Fuck." John had to sit down. He pressed his eyes shut so tightly tears escaped at the corners. He told himself it was a physical reaction rather than an emotional one.

"John," Sherlock said tonelessly.

"I get it now. Two years is enough time to fall out of love with somebody. All the signs were there. You don't touch me, you don't enjoy when I touch you, but you can get it up for a nice afternoon wank. And you even _told me_. Fuck. Fuck." Abruptly, John got to his feet, startling Sherlock who had stood motionless a few feet away from him.

"I ... I need to go," John said and walked past him briskly. At the top of the stairs, he stopped and turned around. On his face was a look of pain and tentative hope.

"But. Sherlock. Tell me, honestly. Is there ... _any_ chance? For us? Because if you're only holding back, because of Mary, because you like her. I need to know if it is her, or me. Because if it is because of Mary, Sherlock, I'll leave her. Just say the word and I'm yours. But if it's because of me, because you don't… want?... me any more. Then I'm not sure if I can handle that, but I'll try. Because even if you don't- If you _don't_. You're so important to me, Sherlock, you must know that and I can't live without you. So I'll do whatever you tell me to. But I need to know." Even with his heart on his sleeve, John could utter the word _love_.

_It's Mary. Because you'll forever be the only one for me, but you actually have a choice here. You're going to marry her and you'll be happy and most importantly, you'll be safe. And so will I because you will forget me and take my heart with you. And no-one will ever again put explosives on you or snipers or put you in a bonfire and we'll both be happier for it. And then one day you will read about my death in the papers and you will tell your children some of our adventures, but you won't mourn me and laugh about the notion that you once fancied yourself in love with a madman. Because this is the only option, John, you must see that, too._

But instead of saying any of that, Sherlock kept staring at nothing. Let John make of that what he wanted, in the end whatever explanation he made up for his silence it was better than the truth. Had John known the depth of Sherlock's feelings for him he would do something inexcusably stupid with his life and Sherlock couldn't stand for stupidity.

"Right," John said when Sherlock kept stoically silent. "Right." He turned once more and took the first step downstairs. Sherlock wanted to hold him back but gripped his dressing gown instead.

"No, wait, no. You're lying," John said then and pointed a finger at Sherlock. "_You_ wanted me. That day with the blanket, _you_ were trying to seduce me. _You _kissed me, it was you. You weren't playing along then, you actually started it!"

"I was insulted," Sherlock said defensively. "And I wanted to prove that I'm not shy. But I came to my senses soon enough, didn't I?"

"But _you kissed me_."

"You're an attractive man. It didn't mean anything."

"It meant the world to me."

Sherlock gulped and closed his eyes. That wasn't meant to be happening.

"John," he begged with his eyes still shut, and added, after a few seconds, without intonation, "No."

They still went to therapy even though Sherlock was questioning the need to now more than ever. Maybe he was angry with John or maybe he felt the need for total disclosure, but one day not long after the men's last fight, he dropped the bomb.

Dr Loughton had brought up the issue of Sherlock's time away again. He wanted to know when Sherlock had first noticed his impotence and Sherlock got annoyed. For a man who didn't care about his libido, he still felt typically threatened in his manhood when people mentioned a fault in it.

"It's not a failure to perform, it's that I'm not getting excited," he said clipped.

"But when did you first notice it?" the doctor rephrased.

"Only when I came back, and John ..." Sherlock must have known he was being cruel when he let his voice fade like that, but he didn't care either way. John felt the sting deeply. It was true that Sherlock was testy these days and it had always been John who had to bear the brunt it when he felt like his skin was boiling just underneath the surface. It didn't mean that John didn't cringe in the other chair when he saw what was about to happen as Sherlock started smiling insincerely.

"How do you know it didn't start earlier?" the doctor asked.

"Because," Sherlock started crisply and stopped. His hesitation before he continued was a cause for worry.

"Because," he started again, softer, and fixing his eyes on a spot at the wall, "I- There were ... people. While I was away." In the other chair, John closed his eyes in obvious pain. Of all the things he hadn't expected this.

"You had sexual relations with other men during that time?"

Sherlock shook his head no.

"But you were attracted to them?" Dr Loughton was knitting his eyebrows together. Again Sherlock shook his head.

"No," he said, softly, eyes still fixed away so that he could see John from the corners of them and keep him in view without having to look at him straight. "Not men," he said. Seven feet to his side, John gasped. The doctor nodded.

"Women then. And you had intercourse with them?" Sherlock opened his mouth to answer but John was faster. "Yeah, Sherlock," he said and he could barely suppress his anger now, "did you fuck them, hm? How many were there?" Sherlock had the decency to look hurt and a little surprised, as if he had forgotten that by hurting John some of that pain would hit him, too.

"Two," Sherlock answered and closed his eyes trying block everything out. John raised his chin defiantly.

"Who were they?" he asked.

"What does it matter?" Sherlock snapped.

"When a man I previously thought to be exclusively gay tells me he slept with two women, it matters to me," John explained impatiently. Sherlock took a breath and held it in, stubbornly refusing to answer for a while.

"They had information. I needed it," he said at last.

"Their names?" John inquired.

"You don't know them."

"What. Were. Their. Names, Sherlock?"

"Roberta and Irene." He hesitated on the second name, just long enough for John to connect the dots.

"As in Irene Adler?" he asked. His voice was cold.

"She is dead," Sherlock said.

"No she isn't. Which you know, because you saved her life." For the first time since this had started, Sherlock was looking at John directly. John sighed. He knew exactly the thoughts that were running through his old friend's mind in this moment. Trying to figure out which lies he could get away with.

"I'm not stupid!" John said rather vehemently. "And you forgot that I always paid your credit card bills. I saw the flight charge on the bill and when Mycroft told me where she was supposedly killed, I put one and one together, you idiot. I just had to look up the confirmation number online."

"Oh." Sherlock looked as if he was secretly impressed. Another time, John would've been proud to have achieved that.

"Yes. So answer the fucking question, was it Irene Adler?" But Sherlock didn't need to confirm it when his look told John everything he needed to know.

"Well," John said, taking a calming breath. "I bet she at least was happy."

"She seemed to, yes." John smiled at him, his dangerous smile, the one Sherlock had often seen but never directed at him. It made his skin tingle.

John got to his feet and addressed the doctor who had stayed quiet all this time.

"Thanks for your time, but we're done here." With that, he left the room. Sherlock scrambled to his feet to follow him.

"John!" he called.

"No!" John yelled and spun around, took a step closer and grew three feet for all that he was towering over Sherlock. Sherlock shrunk back. "We're done here. I'm getting married next week and you're going to be my best man and after that, you can go back to fucking all the women you like for all I care. I'm just glad we found the root of your problem. It's me, what a surprise!"

"Please, John."

"No. Sod this. Sod this. Alright, I'll be honest. I loved you. Love you. But you never did, not for a minute. And that's okay. I knew you can't. I hoped, but that's not your fault. And you even complained that I'm not passionate enough!"

"Let me explain."

"No! You really have no idea what this does to me, do you? Six months! Six months I wasted trying to figure out if you had any feelings left for me. And, nothing! You made me believe that something happened to you that stopped you from being intimate with me, I worried if I was putting you under too much pressure. And then I come home to find you wanking one day and now you're telling me that while you were away you were happily fucking The bloody Woman and it's a slap in the face, Sherlock! A fucking slap in the face." John didn't wait for any explanation Sherlock could give because he didn't want to be manipulated again. He grabbed his jacket and ran for it, too embarrassed to stay in the same room with him and a witness. The next time Sherlock saw John again he was wearing a morning suit and handing him the ring John then put on Mary's finger.

Sherlock left the wedding early. Before he reached the main street and could call a cab, John caught up with him.

"You ... fucking ... idiot," he said through gritted teeth and shoved at Sherlock.

"I changed my mind!" Sherlock caught him by the arms and held him close. He didn't mean to say it, but the words found their way out.

"Fucking late," John spit. "I'm married. That means something to me." They glared at each other, both so hurt, but John's pain was buried under anger and Sherlock's under guilt.

"You had your chance," John pleaded, much softer than before. "I _asked_ you." Sherlock laughed mirthlessly.

"I made a mistake," he said at last and shook his head. "You took me by surprise."

"You had three weeks," John said as tears spilled out of his eyes. Sherlock crowded against him and brought their foreheads together with his hands on either side of John's face. "Why today? Why now, why not yesterday or this morning?"

"I love you. I _love _you," Sherlock said empathetically, beseechingly. Their tears mixed on their cheeks as he kissed John. John broke the kiss.

"You made your choice, and so did I," John said. He rubbed at his face to wipe away the tears, turned around and went back to the reception.

July 2014

Much, much later, after Mary turned out to have a dark past she conveniently forgot to mention and she shot Sherlock to keep it a secret, after she _almost_ killed him and Sherlock found a way to tell John without actually telling him, almost dying a _second_ time in the process and he was back in his hospital bed, John thought he was understandably tense. Always. He barely left Sherlock's room, allegedly to make sure he wouldn't leave it again before he got the all clear from his doctors. He was too preoccupied to notice that though his presence alone did much for Sherlock's recuperation, his mood, even under the circumstances, could have been cheerier.

"My life is falling to pieces around me, so excuse me if I'm dampening the mood. I'll try not to let it pull you down too much," he said acidly when Sherlock mentioned it. Sherlock bit his lip in answer and let it slide.

"Do you ... want to talk about it?" Those words out of Sherlock's mouth sounded ridiculous so John laughed. He must have read them in one of his psycho-relationship-advice books. When did he ever care about anybody's well-being? John saw right through him. He smiled the smile that always made Sherlock's skin crawl, the one that wasn't usually turned on him.

"Sure," John said overly sweet. "Hm, where do I start? My wife, who's been lying to me since the day we met? Who's also, incidentally, pregnant with what may or may not be my child? Or do you want to talk about the fact that my best friend was shot and consequently almost died twice and what that did to me? Because I've already lost him once and it almost killed me then. Or would you rather talk about the fact that it was my wife who did the shooting? The same woman who helped me recover from the first time I mourned him and who is the one person in the world who should know better than anybody else what hurting you would do to me, and who did it anyway. Or, why don't we start on the fact that my ex-boyfriend, who on the very day I got married swore up and down that he still loved me, not one day later started seeing a woman and seemingly overcame his impotence in the blink of an eye once he was with a woman again? Hm? I think we should talk about that first, don't you think?"

Sherlock looked down at his hands in his lap. He looked exhausted, like he always did since the shooting and since he had lost a litre of his blood. John gulped, swallowed the guilt away he felt looking at the fury that was worming its way up through Sherlock's weary lethargy. John didn't want to feel guilty, he wanted to be angry. Angry felt so much more in control than guilty.

"It was necessary for the case," Sherlock said weakly. "She needed to believe that I was in love with her so she would let me into his office."

John interrupted. "Yes, I get that. I don't get how you could _fuck_ her when you can't actually get it up! You either lied to her, or to me. And the way my life is going right now, I'm pretty sure I know the answer." John knew he sounded so very bitter and resigned at the same time, like he had given up hope and just accepted that everyone he once held dear was lying to him. He didn't have the energy left in him to hide that.

"I never slept with her," Sherlock said quickly. "Never. Not once."

John snorted. "And I'm to believe that, aren't I?"

"Yes!" John searched Sherlock's face for signs that he was lying but he couldn't find any. He wanted to believe him badly and he, too, was exhausted. He buried his face in his hand.

"See, I don't. I just don't. She believed you were going to marry her. What woman does that, marry someone they never even had sex with? And, the papers. You're telling me she made all these stories up?" Realising that he had stopped trusting Sherlock was one of the worst things that had happened to him recently.

"Of course she did. John!" Sherlock sounded tired and in pain. He looked at John frustratedly, willing him to see, to understand that all he wanted right now was to sleep and to have John there to watch over him and to not have to discuss _this_, here, _now_.

"I'm gay! Get that into your head, will you? Always was, always will be. There are ... a _million_ other things I'd gladly argue with you about but not whether or not I slept with a woman that held no interest for me physically. This is tedious!"

John glared at him, but he was a bit taken aback.

"You had no problem sleeping with two women while you were away," he reminded coldly albeit less so than before.

"Pills! You're a doctor, you know how it works. Took one, closed my eyes and prayed it would be over soon." John stared now. It was news to him and he felt glad. That Sherlock would resort to chemicals rather than be genuinely aroused was a relief to be honest. It also made him feel stupid, the way he had been unreasonably jealous, he realised now. For years it had been a sort of pride that he alone should have been the only one to turn Sherlock Holmes's head, until Sherlock had come along with his confession and John had to see that he was merely one of some. Both thoughts were stupid, so he felt ashamed.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," John said. He sank into himself, rubbed his face and looked on like a man destroyed. "I'm tired of this," he confessed. "I feel like I constantly have to apologise, like everything is my fault, you know? Even though I can't wrap my mind around what I have done wrong. It's frustrating. And it makes me so ... so angry. I keep going back and back and thinking that nothing of this would have happened if you hadn't left. Which makes me angry at you, of all people, and you lie here and almost died on me twice now. I just. I don't know what to think. I don't know what to feel. It eats me up."

"Maybe you should leave," Sherlock suggested quietly.

"You want me to go?" John asked acutely, a bit hurt and much confused.

"Honestly?"

John nodded silently.

"I just want you to lie next to me and hold me, but I'm tired and in pain and your mood drives me round the bend, so yes, I'd rather you leave than be yelled at by you. I can't change that past. I'm sorry you're in turmoil, but I'm the one in a hospital bed, so if you can't show some compassion, please go. You can chastise me when I no longer need help going to the toilet."

John squared his jaw and glared at him until the words made sense in his head. Then, he got up and left. He wasn't able to stay away completely, but for two weeks he would, could, only stay for about ten minutes a day, asking how Sherlock was and kept his mouth shut otherwise. John would take Sherlock's hand and press his lips to his fingers, before he'd bow his head and silently asked for absolution.

Sherlock was the one in hospital, but it didn't take a doctor to see that both men were broken.

August 2014

Sherlock was sitting by the window the last night John came to visit him in his hospital room. He looked so much better already, less pale and the evidence of the pain he must still feel well hidden. Without a word, John dragged the other chair to the window too and sat down, looked out into the orange dark that surrounded the hospital.

"I'm being discharged tomorrow," Sherlock started the conversation.

"So soon?" John was surprised. He turned around to face Sherlock fully and his hand reached for the shirt he was wearing, pushing it up to inspect the wound. It was hidden under a clean bandage, but John saw it none-the-less in his mind's eye. Sherlock let him palpate him in silence. He always did.

"I've been here for a month," Sherlock said quietly when John had put his shirt back. John didn't know what to feel. Sherlock coming home felt so ... final.

"Okay. I'll come around in the morning, we can sign your discharge papers and get you home." But he still had one more night to formulate a plan, to figure out how they would go forth from here.

"I don't want to go home," Sherlock confessed in barely more than a whisper. And yes, that hurt. Because home, that surely meant John. If he didn't want to come back to John, then John really had no idea what to do. He didn't say anything.

"You said we'd go to Glen Coe," Sherlock said into the silence. He was pleading with John. "When all of it was over. You said we'd go hiking. Can we go, please?"

"It's not over, Sherlock," John told him apologising. He sat in wondrous fear. Never had he seen Sherlock running away from anything and John could take so much, but he couldn't stand seeing Sherlock in dread.

"Can't we pretend?"


	4. Glencoe: September-November 2014

Please mind the trigger warnings:

TW: Descriptions of past rape

This is Glencoe, and in this story, Glencoe means they talk. Finally. I hope you enjoy it.

**Glencoe: September-November 2014**

September 2014

They had got an SUV that cost them 36 pounds per day because Sherlock had insisted he needed space to stretch his legs.

"For that price we could've _bought_ a car," John murmured but let it slip otherwise. The wound was still healing and he didn't want Sherlock to be cramped and hurting and actually agreed that the extra space would help.

Now John was driving them along long roads where they passed other cars every 30 miles on average. It was a grey day, but then, they almost always were grey in Scotland. They had entered the Highlands a while back and their car was taking the mountains splendidly which annoyed John for some reason.

"Wanna drive by Loch Ness?" John had asked when they had started in Edinburgh, fresh out of the plane.

"Why would I want to do that?" Sherlock had asked appalled.

"Dunno. Thought you might like to see if you can find Nessie," John had mumbled into the steering wheel.

"Who?" And there John had smiled, relieved, because it was only Sherlock displaying his trademark ignorance of pop culture and not him laughing at John for mentioning it.

"Never mind," he had said then. Maybe he would find an opportunity later for the tale.

In the late afternoon, they arrived in Glencoe. The village was comparatively big for a highland location, but very, very tiny in comparison to London and one look from a heightened position was enough to make Sherlock sneer.

"This was a mistake," he said derisively and climbed back into the car where John had stopped it at a viewpoint. He crossed his arms and began to sulk. "Let's go back. If you're quick, we can catch the 21:20 flight to Gatwick." John, too, got back into the car and started it without a word. Sherlock's head jumped up, with a look of surprise on his face that John would actually do what he said. But he was back to sulking just as fast.

"You're not turning around, are you?" he said.

"Course not," John confirmed.

"You never do what I want any more," Sherlock mumbled into the scarf he insisted on wearing in the car. John just smiled. They both knew Sherlock didn't really want to leave. It had been his idea after all.

They picked up the key and directions to their cottage in the village and set off again to get settled in. The cabin was farther up in the mountains, with the next houses a hundred yards to either side, hidden behind trees and rocks. They had a spectacular view onto the loch from their lounge and the mountains from the kitchen. John stepped outside and let his eyes feast on the setting sun illuminating the peaks. He sighed deeply, contentedly, and felt tension fall off his shoulders and back. Suddenly, he felt at least 5 stone lighter.

He could hear soft steps behind him and the door opening wider but he didn't turn around. John felt Sherlock's presence more than he saw him, a step behind him to the right, a careful distance between them and he felt the other man's hesitation.

"I've missed this," he said into the silence before it had a chance to become uncomfortable. It worked and Sherlock took the last step and stood beside him. Their arms were brushing as they both looked straight ahead.

"You've never been here before," Sherlock pointed out. John shook his head and rolled his eyes.

"I know. I meant the mountains. The setting sun. The quiet."

"The sun sets in London just the same, you just never see it because you're always in that stupid surgery of yours. As for the quiet, it's hateful! There's literally no data to be extracted from it."

"Shut up," John told him without any heat. They stayed outside, side by side, until the sun was completely gone behind the mountains and darkness was approaching them fast. Every now and then they saw a car passing by on the road some miles away, but other than that the only other living things out there were dozens of sheep. It felt like a different world entirely.

"Do you think we can get Thai delivered here?" Sherlock inquired then and John laughed. Deep from the belly the sound echoed around them, thrown back from the rocks everywhere and Sherlock beamed despite himself. John thought that he absolutely needed to see this look of happiness more often on that face.

"I'll try and get you some tomorrow," he promised.

The cottage only had one bedroom and John had taken the couch. Starting on the first night it was apparent that only one of both would ever be used at the same time. It was late and he had already arranged his pillow and blanket when Sherlock came back into the lounge.

"Can't you sleep? Are you in pain?" John asked worried and maybe a little happy, because he was not yet sleepy and still too confused to be left alone with his thoughts for too long. Sherlock shook his head.

"Not tired," he said and sat down next to John. He was only wearing a dressing gown which allowed John's eyes to wander over his strong, naked legs. John turned fully towards him.

"Let me see," he said and grabbed for the lapels of the dressing gown. He didn't need to be more specific, ever since it had happened he was obsessed with the wound and Sherlock's recuperation. He opened the gown now and let his left hand stroke over the smallish scar, still very pink and slightly raised, but healing well.

"Does it hurt?" he asked without tearing his eyes away from the wide expanse of exposed skin.

"No. It itches sometimes," Sherlock said softly. John nodded. With a reluctance that was unjustified he leant back into the arm of the couch. Sherlock closed his dressing gown again, never meeting John's eyes while he did so.

"It's all right," Sherlock said to no one in particular. John didn't answer and turned on the TV.

At some point they fell asleep next to each other, the cold of the room making them seek warmth and comfort in each other's bodies as they huddled close without conscious thought. When they woke up the next morning it was with stiff necks and an embarrassed look on their faces. None of which stopped them to repeat it the very next night and every night following until John had enough and moved them into the bedroom.

"I can take the couch if you'd rather have the bed," Sherlock offered sheepishly as he stood in the door way, neither in nor out of the room. John unbuttoned his shirt and was completely engrossed in the task.

"We both sleep better with the other nearby," he said. He climbed into the bed and it was only a minute later that Sherlock followed.

Talking is easier at night, with all the lights turned off. Everybody knows that. Sherlock was lying with his back turned to John, it was dark and there was a cool arm's length of space between their bodies. Neither man was asleep and both knew it.

"They say," Sherlock said into the dark ahead of him, "the third time's the charm. Does that mean you only get three tries and that's it? If you don't make it by then, it's over?"

John rolled onto his back. "No," he said in a firm voice after a moment of contemplation.

"So you think if this- if we don't work out, if Scotland is not enough- you think we can try again?" There was so much left unsaid in Sherlock's naive question, but the thing John heard most clearly was the worry that they would again break each other's hearts.

"I think we get as many chances as we need. I think that as long as we are being honest with each other, we don't need any more chances." John's voice was getting louder and still firmer, he spoke with a belief that was founded deep within him. "I also think that we should stop thinking of this as chances, because that implies it's luck. I don't want to be _lucky_. I just want to be happy, is all."

Sherlock turned around to muster him. But Glencoe is not London, and when it's after nightfall and you turn off the lights, it's _dark_.

"I can't see if you're serious or delusional," he complained. John laughed quietly. He took Sherlock's hand and guided his fingers to feel the lines in John's face, like a blind man would do.

"What's the verdict?" he asked after Sherlock had carefully touched all over his face.

"Delusional," he answered with a smile in his voice. Once more John laughed. He felt the trepidation fall away and feeling brave, he pulled Sherlock forward into his arms where the man immediately wiggled into a more comfortable and closer position. John swore to himself he would never again let him go.

At night, John occupied himself with his laptop for hours, reading pages upon pages of something. It was a light mystery to Sherlock, one he contemplated solving for a moment or two, but discarded the idea because it would have been far too easy. He just had to walk over and see what websites John was on. In the end, the sofa in their little cottage was too comfortable and he'd find out any way.

It came to light the next morning. They had taken to taking walks in the mountains in the mornings, easy walks, no hiking and John always made sure they had enough water and took breaks every twenty minutes on the minute no matter where they were at that moment. He didn't even look at his watch for that. His internal clock worked flawlessly. It was infuriating Sherlock in some unknown way, that.

That morning, they were taking the narrow road that would ultimately lead them to Fort William if they had been inclined to walk the 16 miles, which they weren't. And suddenly, John started talking. He pointed at one of the mountains in the distance and told Sherlock all about it. Its height, what kind of plants were growing there except gorse that was growing everywhere any way, but most interestingly, he told Sherlock about one especially vicious slaughtering that had been done there only a hundred years prior. Sherlock eyed the peak suspiciously.

"Are you making that up?" he asked John dubiously.

"It will be a sad day indeed when I start making up that kind of stuff," John sighed, his gaze faraway. Sherlock squinted at him.

"How can you be so sure it was that exact mountain?" he asked, still not believing him.

"Because, it was," John said and his eyes focussed on him for the first time in minutes. "Why?"

"They all look the same!" Sherlock nearly exploded. "All the mountains, they all look exactly the same. How can you be so sure it happened there and not," he pointed at another peak at random, "there?" John looked at him, a look of wonderful incredulity on his face. "What?" Sherlock asked.

"Just," John started. "You, asking me how I can tell apart mountains when you can tell the difference between two absolutely identical flecks of dust." That had happened once, and Sherlock had cheated then, but he chose to not tell John that when he had been so amazed. Sherlock still liked to bask in his admiration, that never got old. Years after, John still brought that example up whenever he felt like showing Sherlock off or reprimanding him, depending on what mood he was in at that moment. Right now he was amused. Sherlock mumbled something of no consequence.

"Any way," John said, "I know. You'll just have to take my word for it and trust me. I know you don't usually trust people, but in this case, well, you should."

"Other people," Sherlock mumbled.

"What was that?" John asked.

"_Other_ people. I trust you." Sherlock stared at the ground and at John for only a split second, enough to gauge his reaction. He looked dumbstruck. It was not a look that suited him well.

They resumed walking and were quiet until the next twenty minutes mark was reached. Sherlock had learned not to argue his case and merely drank a sip of water when John held out the bottle to him.

"What else can you tell me?" Sherlock asked then. John smiled broadly and started talking anew.

It turned out John had tried to find everything murder or crime related to the area they were staying in that he could get his hands on. His knowledge was profound and he never stopped collecting more. Every night he would read up on something and then the next morning, he would lead Sherlock there and tell him what he had learned.

Sherlock knew John was doing it to entertain him, that he was fearing Sherlock would grow bored of the tiny village and its reduced chance of vicious crime. Yet the truth was, Sherlock was still healing and he felt no need for any more than what was already on his mind. Between being constantly exhausted and trying to come up with a way to solve the Mary-dilemma, he had no time for boredom. But even if that hadn't been the case, it had been years since Sherlock was last bored in John's company. John had to learn that he was enough. It was enough that he was at Sherlock's side, out with him, spending time with only him. But John had always underestimated his own worth.

In the mornings, it was now always John who would wake up first. He enjoyed those times and then felt bad about it a moment later, when the memory of the reason why Sherlock needed all that extra sleep now came rushing back. But he couldn't help it, when he opened his eyes to a soft-looking Sherlock from whom sleep had taken all tension and at least ten years, he felt love surge through him so powerful it left him speechless for a moment.

This time around, John was adamant, they would be doing it right. It _was _their third try after all.

He had not spent therapy watching the time tick by but had listened and asked questions. He knew that their biggest problem had always been communication and was determined to not make the same mistake again. They loved each other. It was difficult to understand how that was possible, to get your head around how someone like Sherlock could love someone like John, but John thought he had seen proof of it nonetheless. Now all he had to do was to start believing it. And make Sherlock see the same thing.

"Made you some tea," he said one of these mornings as he sat down on the edge of the bed, balancing two mugs filled to the brim carefully. He put one, his, down on the bedside table and held the other out to Sherlock, who was slowly blinking himself into wakefulness before taking the mug from him unconsciously. He stared at the brew before he started remembering what tea was and began smiling at the steam like a child. John grinned. Watching Sherlock wake up, no matter how often he had witnessed it, never lost its charm.

"Thanks," Sherlock said. He was slightly lisping because this early in the morning he had no control over his tongue. He didn't notice it himself, but John heard it.

They drank their tea in silence, sitting hip to hip in bed and each staring ahead, following their own thoughts. It was nice to have nothing planned for the day and so they didn't feel a rush.

"We could stay in bed all day, and nobody would care," John mused aloud.

"But what would we do in here?" Sherlock asked and surprised John who hadn't noticed he was saying it not only in his head. He was grinning at John now, suggestively wiggling his brows one after the other. John laughed at him.

"We would get bored senseless," he mock agreed pensively. He slid down until he was lying on his back and looking up at Sherlock.

"I suppose so." Sherlock followed him down. Simultaneously both men turned on their sides, locking their arms under their heads in lieu of a pillow.

"Or," John said.

"Or?" Sherlock prompted.

"Or we could just snog like teenagers until we find something better to do." He shrugged as if he didn't care either way. Sherlock's face lit up in joy. He adopted a bored demeanour, something he had down to perfection.

"Shouldn't take more than a minute for that," he said with a false sigh. They met in the middle of the bed in a sweet kiss and spent the better part of the morning just doing that.

October 2014

In early October they started drawing attention.

"Where do all of these children come from?" Sherlock asked one morning. John looked at the two boys that could hardly be classified as "all of these children". He shrugged.

"I suppose it's half term," he explained.

"What's that?" Sherlock asked and John went on to explain to him the intricacies of the British school system.

"You can't have deleted all this," John said. "You did go to school, didn't you?"

"I ..." Sherlock was caught thinking hard. "Seem to remember to go home from time to time." He shook his head as if to delete that memory finally. "Didn't notice the pattern."

In any case, the two boys started following them around when John mentioned the word "murder". He blushed and tried to censor his words of which Sherlock would have none.

"They're kids, Sherlock," John tried explaining. "I think their parents wouldn't like it much if they knew what they've heard from me."

"Pah, they're what nine? Ten? Prime age to start into the detecting business." And then Sherlock called the children over, who were eleven, as they informed him very seriously, and more than mentally capable of hearing horror stories. John disagreed, secretly.

"I'm a famous detective," Sherlock told them to which they reacted delighted with secret glances at each other. "Google my name. John, give them my business card."

"I don't have a business card," John told him bemused. Sherlock fixed him with a stern look.

"Why don't you have one? You always carry them around," he said.

"Not when we're on holiday, I'm not." John was indignant. Sherlock huffed. And one of the boys giggled. The grown-ups looked at him quizzically.

"You sound like my parents. They're always rowing, too." On the other boy's face, understanding dawned.

"Are you married?" he asked them. Sherlock looked at John, his lips twitching into a smile. Let him handle that.

"No," John said quickly. The boy who had asked the question looked like he didn't believe him.

"But you are together," he said but it sounded like a question.

"Yes," John said and surprised Sherlock with it. They were? Because that was ... good.

Then one day, John came home from doing the shopping carrying a few bags and a thoughtful expression on his face.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked from the couch where he was studying the remarkable cracks in the ceiling.

"The cashier at the shop, _Laura_, has invited us to a _dinner party_ at the village tomorrow night," John explained. He put the bags down next to the couch and sat down. Sherlock had just time to draw in his legs or John would have sat on them.

"Said it was high time they got to know me, that _the children_ are going on and on about me, and make sure to bring _that handsome husband of mine_," he carried on with a faraway voice. "When did we make the jump from everybody assuming we're shagging to being married already?" Sherlock wanted to rouse him from his reverie.

"This is a simpler country," he said seriously.

"Huh?" John asked and met his gaze.

"They're old-fashioned. You can hardly blame them, but they see two men renting a cabin together and of course they think we're married." The corner of his mouth twitched and John picked it up. He broke out into a huge grin.

"Of course. Those mountain villages and their outdated views on relationships."

Socially, the dinner party had been a successful night. Which was something of a first. With Sherlock, you always had to work hard to make sure he stayed clear of social pitfalls. But this night, with the company of a few select people, it had been good. Interesting even. John had enjoyed himself and so, it had seemed, had Sherlock.

He found him after everything out on the terrace of their hosts' home, clinging to his thin suit jacket because his coat was still inside. In his right hand he held an unlit cigarette, in his left a lighter. John took the cigarette from him and took his now empty hand into his. He leaned his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder and pressed his body against his side. He sighed, tiredly.

"You wanna go home?" he asked quietly and looked up into Sherlock's face. He could still count the times Sherlock had kissed him first on one hand and he smiled happily when that number was increased by one now.

"You're in a good mood," he whispered when the chaste kiss came to an end. Sherlock shrugged.

"I enjoyed myself tonight," he said. He looked somewhat baffled. "I don't usually enjoy myself in company," he added then. John saw him warring with himself, his aloof side that didn't need human input and the side of him that thrived when it was not only provided with it nonetheless, but stimulating input at the same time. John smiled at him and squeezed his hand.

"That's good," he said.

For a few minutes they stood there and looked at the almost black night sky. It was a cloudy day and they couldn't see the stars, only a hint of the moon through the dense fog of the clouds. Sherlock started shivering.

"Can I have my cigarette back?" he asked.

"Sorry. Crushed it," John lied without missing a beat. Sherlock called him out on it. John nudged his shoulder playfully.

"Come on, let's get you out of the cold and into bed," he said and started walking away determinedly, pulling Sherlock by his hand.

"Yes, let's," Sherlock agreed suggestively. John looked at him over his shoulder and couldn't suppress the hungry look that had snuck into his eyes nor the noticeable increase in speed with which he was walking.

In the car on their way home, John took his hand again. He squeezed it a little before he placed their clasped hands on Sherlock's thigh. He smiled at him.

"When we get home, we need to talk," he said. Very predictably, Sherlock groaned and slumped back in his seat.

"Must we?" he said disgusted at the notion of _talking_. "I thought we could just get naked and let things go from there naturally." John laughed quietly.

"As tempting as that sounds, and it sounds _very_ tempting, I want to get it right this time. That's what we went to therapy for, remember? Miscommunication? Different expectations that lead to disappointing results?" Again, Sherlock grunted. He turned his head towards the window, as if he could see anything in the black of the night, and grumbled quietly to himself. But for all that he turned away, he wouldn't let go of John's hand in his. John ran his thumb over the back of his hand in a way he hoped was reassuring.

"I thought we went to therapy to cure me of my impotence," Sherlock said very lowly. John's breath caught in his throat. The few times he had tried bringing up that particular topic, Sherlock had always cut him short. When it had been mentioned, he had downplayed it, blamed it on moods or circumstance. This was the first time he had uttered the dreaded I-word, implying that he was now finally willing to get to the root of the problem. John squeezed his hand.

"The underlying causes rather than the symptoms," he corrected softly. From out of the corner of his eye he saw Sherlock turn his head and raise an eloquent eyebrow at him. "Oh, shut up!"

"Didn't say a word," Sherlock remarked dryly. The drive up to their cottage wasn't very long and they spent the rest of it in silence. But once they were home, John didn't drag Sherlock off to their bedroom. Instead he lit a fire in the hearth, but he couldn't help throwing a longing look at the bed that was just visible through the never really closed door. No. In the car he had decided that it wasn't time for that yet. They really needed to talk.

"At some point I want you to be able to tell me what has happened to you," he began. "Because I want to hear it from you. But," and this was the difficult part, because how could he explain to Sherlock that the mere thought of possibly having his suspicions confirmed was already sickening, that the sight of the scars all over his body made John tremble with rage and that none of that was pointed at Sherlock, even though he would be the one there to witness it first? It was impossible, so John shook his head.

"I will be angry. I will want to run away and maybe I will even ask you to stop." He stopped to swallow. "And I'm afraid, alright? But I want to hear it. Do you understand?" He was asking much more with that. He needed Sherlock to tell him that he knew John would never blame him for anything that had happened. His eyes were full of pleading until Sherlock broke the gaze and looked away.

"I want to tell you, too," he said quietly. "It's- I mean, therapy. I didn't want to, at first, tell Dr Loughton because I wanted to forget, so I pretended nothing _did _happen. I thought it wasn't as bad. I mean, when you think about it, I got a few more scars but no lasting injuries. I have nightmares, but they will go away. And I didn't even notice that I could no longer ... get aroused because it just wasn't important to me. The only reason I told him was because you asked me to." He stopped talking for a long time and John waited patiently. It had to happen on Sherlock's terms, he knew, or not at all.

"I used to love being touched by you. When you touched me, it was the only time I ever felt truly appreciated, like somebody could actually love me for who I was. That's why it hurt so much when you wouldn't let me touch you back. I thought I had just let my fantasies run away with me. But I always enjoyed it.

"Then I came back and when I noticed you weren't opposed to continuing our affair, I thought it would just be the same. It wasn't." He actually apologised for the fact. "When you touched me now, I didn't feel the same thrill as before. Sometimes it was even unpleasant. I thought I had stopped loving you, that that was why it had stopped feeling nice. But I still thought about you, more than ever even. So I had to admit I still loved you." He fumbled at the cuticle on his left thumb.

"I always loved you. I wish I could say I decided to finally tell Dr Loughton because I missed you or any other more logical reason, but the truth is I only did it because I missed how you made me feel about myself." He shrugged and looked appraisingly at John who smiled at him reassuringly as much as he was able to smile. It felt like a grimace on his face.

"I heard love is not about how you feel about the other person, but how the other person makes you feel about yourself. What I'm trying to say is, is that I never tried for you to love me back as much as I loved you. I only tried to show you how much you mean to me. How special you are to me."

"You did. But I couldn't understand what you were trying to tell me. But you _did _make me feel special. I knew you loved me even before we started sleeping together. I just never thought you _wanted _me as well."

"We wasted so much time," John groaned. Sherlock answered sharply.

"We didn't waste a single second."

"How can you say that, when we sit here and we're ... both ..." John didn't know how to finish that sentence.

"We wouldn't have worked then. We might not work now, but we didn't waste a second. All those years have done was make me realise how important you are to me and how much I took you for granted in the beginning. That it's a privilege to get to call you my friend and more, not my right."

"You think we might still not work out?" John smiled a little easier, he liked the sincere way Sherlock had said that.

"I learned that a relationship is work and that you have to put the effort in if you want it to be successful. But I fear I might still fall back into my old ways from time to time."

"Did Dr Loughton teach you that?" Now John was outright grinning. It sounded like a text book.

"That man is clever but then he's working for my brother, so I wouldn't have expected anything less," Sherlock confessed.

The first time they had sex was one night a while later, when John woke up and found the bed next to him empty and the door to the lounge area ajar, letting in a cool draft. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, his harsh knuckles waking him up more, and stretched before he left the bed in search of Sherlock. He kept the light off, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight he found when he entered the living room of their cabin.

Sherlock stood by the open window, stark naked and bathed in the silver light of the full moon, giving his skin an unearthly glow that was almost blueish. John's breath caught in his throat and for a moment he swore his heart stopped beating.

Sherlock had lost some weight since the shooting, but none of it it was clear in his muscles. He was skinny but not bony and every muscle stood defined. He was smoking by the window, hence it was open, and leant slightly forward on the window sill, helping in making the form of his body even more pronounced. John drank him in. This perfect example of a human man in his prime.

His eyes were drawn first to his unbelievably firm buttocks. For a man his size Sherlock had a big butt but naked as he was now it was clear that none of it was fat, but pure muscle. John felt the magnetic urge to drop to his knees the better to reach for them and pry them apart, to bury his face in the cleft between them and lick and taste. Bite maybe. Definitely bite.

Then there was his back. Broad in the shoulder and small in the waist, the muscles forming a perfect letter v with the angle pointing to his arse and making John look at that again. He felt his mouth watering. God, how much he wanted.

Lastly Sherlock's legs. Firm thighs and the overly pronounced calves of a cyclist even though Sherlock usually snorted about the idea of a cycle. Tight legs that went on for miles and in John's head, the picture clear of those legs around his own waist as he rutted against the perfect arse.

And then John thought, _why not?_

Purposefully he closed the distance between them. Sherlock heard him coming and turned his head minutely but kept facing the night still. John stopped short a hand's width away from him and he raised his hand to let it softly run the length of the trapezius from shoulder to spine. Sherlock shivered under his fingers, so he did it again. The room was very cold and he had to know if it was that or his touch that had made him shiver. It was the touch.

John put both hands around his waist. He couldn't control his grip, he wanted so much. He knew he would probably bruise the ridiculously sensitive skin, but he couldn't bring himself to care enough to stop. He had always admired the bruises he had left behind on Sherlock, proof of his desire. Slowly, he pressed his pelvis into Sherlock's hips. His barely clothed front, he was only wearing an old thin t-shirt and a pair of pants, against Sherlock's hot and gloriously naked back.

"God," John breathed into his ear and he shivered again. "Sherlock. You have no idea how much I want you right now." Sherlock wriggled his butt a little.

"I think," he stuttered, "I do." John couldn't even chuckle at his joke. He pressed his face into the shoulder in front of him and kissed it, then he nibbled on it when he couldn't help it. His hands slid around the small waist and over the abs presented to them. He could feel their definition so clearly he hummed into the flesh between his teeth. He sucked a bruise into the skin. It was the first of many to come that night. When he could detach his lips, he whispered clearly, "Tell me you want this, too, Sherlock." After a second, Sherlock nodded, a movement John could feel more than see.

"Tell me," he repeated. He needed to hear it. Not so much as a confirmation or permission, he needed it in his being, hearing the words in Sherlock's sinful baritone. John gave a push with his lower half, his cock already fully erect, an encouragement and reminder.

"Ye- yes," Sherlock said. The stutter was back. It was delightful.

"Say you want it," John said, couldn't help it, he needed to have him vocal again.

"Yes," Sherlock only repeated and John decided that was not good enough. He freed one hand from where it had begun playing with what must be painfully erect nipples, whether from the cold of the night air or a cock pressed into his bum, he couldn't say, and instead ran it from perineum to anus, parting the impeccable globes as he went. He didn't push inside, not yet. Sherlock just whimpered and moaned, "John!" and hearing his name was almost good enough for John.

"Say it," he repeated.

"Yes, John," Sherlock said.

"Say it!"

"John." It was a breathless sigh, a sob.

"Sherlock." John pressed the tip of his finger in the merest bit, his front plastered to Sherlock's back.

"Fuck me," Sherlock said. "Do it, fuck me!" he begged. His voice caught on the the f deliciously, his tongue not used to saying the word. It was all John needed to hear.

"Don't you dare move," he told him and all but ran back to the bedroom. He threw the door of the wardrobe open and scrambled for his bag, at the bottom of which, by pure luck, he had brought a bottle of lube. In a matter of seconds he was back in the lounge. He didn't bother with undressing, only shoved his pants down and his shirt up to grant his hungry skin the privilege of feeling Sherlock's against it. He poured lube, much too much lube but who cared, on his hand and began preparing the man in front of him. Fast but gentle and efficient and four minutes later he deemed the path free, so to say. John took even more lube and gave his eager cock a few strokes, moaning when he first touched the hard hot length of himself and just for a second forgetting Sherlock in front of him. But when he remembered, he guided his cock into him.

The stretch was tight, and hot and everything he remembered. In seconds, he was back home. Here he belonged. John was already gone far too far to bother with slow strokes, instead his speed was high almost from the very first one. When he bottomed out, Sherlock let out a gush of air underneath him.

"John," he moaned. "Fuck me," because it was the only thing he remembered to say and then he started chanting it, "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," as if he was out of his mind and John, John fucked him.

Yet after a minute, he came back into his mind and he remembered something else. Sherlock was overwhelming and it took such an effort to _think_ when he was buried in him to the hilt. He stopped and Sherlock protested.

"Hush," John said, harsher than he intended. He made up for it with a kiss to his shoulder. Then his neck, then he nibbled on his ear lobe. Sherlock was a mess of shivers. "Don't move," John instructed and with concentration, he tore his mouth away and stilled all movement. They were still joined at the crotch or arse respectively, but John needed a moment to catch his breath and delegate some blood to his brain. "Don't move for a moment, please," he pleaded tonelessly. His eyes were screwed shut. Sherlock was so tight and hot and if he moved now, John would lose his mind and fuck him boneless.

With a lot of effort, John reached for the bottle of lube again. He poured some of it into the palm of his hand and then, still shaking from the exertion to _staying still_, he put his hand around Sherlock and stroked his cock. Sherlock jumped and clenched his muscles and John moaned. His brain shut off and his body fell back into its rutting. He gave a few punishing hard thrusts, the sound of flesh hitting against flesh filling the air around them and sounding obscenely loud in the quiet night, while all the while his hand stroked along Sherlock's length in the same fast rhythm.

"God, you're tight," John pressed through clenched teeth. He had to shake his head to clear the fog the sex had created a little, as much as he could. He took Sherlock's hand and smeared the lube on it, then put the hand on his cock.

"Do yourself," he instructed. He fell back into his rhythm with his hands back in their place on Sherlock's hips and he stopped caring so much. It was all Sherlock, now braced against the window sill on only one arm, could do not to break under the onslaught, but he did as he was told and slowly jerked at himself. He was almost fully hard which marked the first time in years for that to happen without chemical help, not the John knew it, but Sherlock spared a second thought for it.

It could not be enough for him but John was panting at his back, alternatively kissing his shoulder blades, biting and sucking the skin, and most importantly rutting away _in_ him. The girth of John against his unused insides that needed reminding to stretch for him was delicious and John couldn't help the groans that fell from his throat. He threw his head back and growled into the night air.

He didn't know whether it was by accident or design when suddenly the tips of Sherlock's fingers stroked over his cock where it was ramming into him. John's moves stuttered once and then he picked up speed with a dark moan. It was only Sherlock stroking himself with his long fingers who had reached so far down as to touch John at the same time, but it was the best idea he had ever had. Sherlock noticed his increased vigour and he kept his fingers exactly where they were and stroked the tips over John. It took five thrusts after that and John came, feeling his semen fill the tight tunnel and engulfing him in crazy heat.

John sank to his knees and sat down next to Sherlock. His head hit the wall under the window heavily and with a loud clunk, but you couldn't tell by the look on his face whether it hurt him or not. He was a sight, with his cock out, wet and glistering in the moon light and his eyes shut and a look of incandescent and goofy happiness on his face. Sherlock, hard and hurting and missing relief, looked down at him and laughed. He was happy. They both were. John opened one eye, sleepily, and caught his gaze.

"That was," he started and looked for the right word. "Good," he said finally. He licked his dry lips and shut his eyes again, bumping his head against the wall once more deliberately as if he enjoyed the pain.

"Good?" Sherlock repeated incredulously. He considered being insulted, but John waved a blind hand at him.

"'ll think of a word... later. 'twas good. You," he left off after that and shot Sherlock a blissed-out smile that made up for almost everything. His eyes, open now, caught on Sherlock's angry-red cock, hard and jutting out in front of him. "Oh," he said. Clumsily, he put his hands up on Sherlock's thighs and manoeuvred him until he was standing spread-legged over John, with John between his legs. He straightened up and leant forward, taking Sherlock's cock into his mouth as far as he dared. Sherlock's eyes shut violently and he swayed forward. John steadied him with his hands on his thighs. He chuckled, something Sherlock could _feel_. He groaned loudly, making John chuckle again.

"John," he said breathlessly. "You don't have to," he added after a moment even though his whole posture begged John to continue no matter his words. John let his cock go only for a moment and Sherlock whined helplessly.

"But God, do I want to," John told him matter-of-factly and put his mouth back on him. Then, Sherlock shut up.

He was aroused and it was so obvious he wanted to come, but it wasn't easy. The longer it took the clearer it became that he was overthinking what was going on, that he became desperate, that he wanted John to give him an orgasm as if it was a reward for his mouth and his tongue that worked so tirelessly on him, and consequently his erection was waning. With a wet sound John plopped off him. His hands were still on Sherlock's thighs, the fingers at the back of them. Sherlock closed his eyes, a look of embarrassment on his face.

"God, you're _dripping_," John said. He ran the tips of the fingers of his left hand through the wet mess on the top of his thigh, were Sherlock was, indeed, dripping. "You're dripping _me_," John said in awe. It was with that picture in his head that Sherlock was hard again instantly. John closed one hand around his length, letting the other lazily stroke through the wetness at this arse, and started jerking.

"Make me drip _you_," he told him. Sherlock's eyes shot open and he was staring down at John. Who looked up at him with the most amazing look of wonder in his eyes and hunger and heat. He stroked him harder, faster. "Come on me. Please. I want to feel you on me. Come on my face," he said, implored really. At Sherlock's back, he shoved two fingers into his arse easily and with the unerring determination of the doctor, found his prostate and began massaging it, never losing his rhythm on Sherlock's cock.

"Come on my face," he said again. Sherlock didn't look away but it was obvious his mind provided the visual of what John had just said. It was finally enough. With a shout, he came. Thick spurts of come hit John square in the face and he moaned. His mouth fell open and the last spurt hit his tongue. He closed his mouth once it was over and swallowed heavily and again and again, relishing the taste.

Sherlock fell to his knees, crowding against John and John, without a moment's hesitation, put his arms around him and pulled him still closer.

"You're amazing," John whispered into his ear. The sob Sherlock gave came as a surprise.

"It's just an orgasm," he said apologetically and with an embarrassed laugh.

"I love you," John said and kissed the top of his head. It was the only thing that would always penetrate any wall Sherlock had put up.

Talking is easier at night, with all the lights turned off. Everybody knows that. John woke up and felt the bed was empty beside him, yet he felt Sherlock's presence in the room.

"You there?" he asked into the dark, directed at a shadow at the far wall he thought might be Sherlock.

"I was captured in the Ukraine in late 2011," Sherlock's calm voice answered from that corner to John's confusion. He blinked a few times trying to get his eyes to adjust to the dark. "It was a group of 22 men, lead by a man called Eugeny Loboda who had a fondness for Russian vodka. So cliche, I know. Drinking made him unpredictable. His second-in-command was Nick Skripchenko, a more controlled man who was biding his time, waiting for Loboda to make a mistake and be got rid of. Skripchenko was gay. Everybody turned a blind eye, but it was an open secret. He took a liking to me.

"In return for his 'protection' from Loboda I had to share his bed. It was a joke, because I was in fetters all the time and also because it didn't stop anyone from striking me. At night he had me shackled to a mattress and stripped.

"The Ukrainian winter is cold and I spent the first night alone, freezing and shivering. The second night he came to me, to 'warm' me, as he said. I tried to evade him, but he kept his promise. It was disgusting. He stank.

"'I just want to make you feel good,' he said, but it didn't feel good. 'You're too pretty to be killed yet.' 'Your pretty mouth is a sin.' He didn't trust me not to bite so I was at least spared that. He used vodka as lubricant and threatened to set fire to it if I was too loud. But I didn't scream. I think he was disappointed that I kept silent.

"He didn't let anybody else come too close to me afterwards, so there was that. I could see that they all thought that once I was 'broken in' they would get their share, but he didn't allow them to touch me like that. It didn't mean he didn't fuck me enough for all of them."

John felt nauseated. His eyes were pressed closed as if he could shut out the images like that when the images were in his head and not really in front of him. It became too much and he ran for the bathroom where he retched cold bile. When he returned, back to the bed because he wasn't stupid and knew why Sherlock had chosen to sit three metres away from him for his story, the farthest he could get away in the bedroom, Sherlock continued in that same detached tone of voice. John felt another wave to bile coming on when he realised he wasn't finished yet.

"I killed him. The first person I killed in my life, and it didn't even feel good. I thought I'd be relieved when I did it, but I wasn't. The Ukrainian side was just the beginning, I realised, just one step closer back to you. One of so many more. Four months and I was already tired of it.

"I met The Woman in Japan. Moriarty's influence in the far east wasn't as strong, but he had a group there as well. Ms Adler helped me to get into their circle. She had her own private score to settle, that's why she offered to be of assistance in the first place. But in the end, neither that nor the fact that I once saved her life were enough to get me to the last piece. We had to pretend to be married and she made me sleep in her bed each night. Nothing happened, of course. But she kept ... insinuating that it should. She didn't outright say it, until one night she handed me a pill and said that if I wanted to get to Pingenet, I 'better swallow it and think of John'.

"I didn't think it would work, not after Skripchenko, that's why I took the pill. I thought that even with chemical help the chances of me getting an erection, ever again, were nil. But I was wrong.

"I told myself that it's all just transport, that it's just sex, and that it doesn't mean anything. I was just glad when it was over after a few minutes. Afterwards, I wasn't even angry at her. I directed my anger at my body, because I felt like it had betrayed me. I told my body not to get aroused but it did. It did and I felt ashamed about it and after that, I didn't even think of _you _like that anymore. And you were everything I ever had, but I started imagining you angry at me, because it was easier. Before I heard your voice all the time and it was always praising me like you used to do, but after that, I imagined you chastising me and it was your voice that said all of the terrible things that _they_ said because when I heard the words in your voice, even the horrible ones, it was so much better." For the first time since Sherlock had started his voice was clouded by emotion. There was nothing, _nothing_, in the world John wanted to do more badly than pull Sherlock into his arms, even though killing every man and woman that had ever laid a finger on his partner came a close second.

Yet at the same time he was so angry, as angry as he had known all along that he would be if he ever heard the full story, found out the details that the scars all over Sherlock's body and his changing physicality only ever hinted at. It didn't matter that John's anger was not directed at Sherlock when he felt it nonetheless, when anger was such a non-discriminating emotion ready to attack everyone in close proximity. John wanted to get out. With every sentence and the image the words put into John's mind he felt more helpless, more sick. He felt it physically. He _felt_ everything Sherlock said.

And still Sherlock continued after a moment of collection. He sounded determined.

"Roberta Urbonyte. She was the last one. I got hold of some more pills, but it wasn't enough for her. Not like Irene. She wanted me to participate. I couldn't and in the end she _allowed _me take her from behind. I didn't have to look at her. I saw my ejaculate in the condom and I threw up. I wanted to kill myself. She laughed at me. Called me a 'fucking poofter'."

John stayed as silent as Sherlock was. He stared at the ceiling, seeing nothing of course in the dark, but he wouldn't have seen anything if it had been noon either. Nothing had ever prepared him for how he should react, so he stayed put when he wanted to walk his anger off, his preferred method.

After what felt like an hour, Sherlock joined him in the bed.

"Is it okay," he hesitated, "if I ask you not to touch me?"

"Of course," John hastened to ascertain. Sherlock lay still beside him and then he took John's hand in between his own, such a chaste, innocent gesture, and pressed them against his chest. How he fell asleep, John would never know, when for him the mere idea of ever sleeping again was laughable. But in the end, after the sun had already come up and Sherlock was still sleeping, exhaustion caught up with John, too, and he closed his eyes for just a second and drifted off.

"This was a stupid idea. Whose idea was it?" John shot him an annoyingly amused look and Sherlock turned his attention back to the very wet rocky road they were standing on. It was raining, because it was a Wednesday, in Scotland, and in Scotland it rained every Wednesday. It also rained every other day of the week. It was kind of a law here, to annoy away visitors who had been stupid enough to think Scotland was a good place for a holiday.

"I seem to recall a certain consulting detective who shall remain unnamed wanted to investigate the site of the famously horrendous Glen Coe massacre."

"Stupid idea," Sherlock muttered under his breath. Very inconspicuously, he tried, he shook the water off his body, not a little reminding John of a dog trying to do the same while he did so.

It was pouring. There was a word for it and everything else would have been playing it cute. The heavens had opened their gates and let loose a downpour, so heavy, at one point while they were hiking up to the old, destroyed village, John had taken Sherlock's hand for purely practical reasons. Together they made sure they didn't slip and fall and a few times it had almost come so far even with the extra balance provided by another man. Now they stood more or less still, but still their hands were clasped. It was difficult to let go when that was the part of their bodies that was warmest.

Also, it was nice. There was that, too.

"Even if there had been anything here still, the rain will have washed everything away! Think the next time, John!" And Sherlock was glowering down at him, but much of his projected anger was lost on the very short distance it had to travel from him to John. It was difficult to convey annoyance when you're fingers were entwined with the ones of the person you were supposed to be annoyed by.

"And _how_ is this my fault again, exactly?" John asked exasperatedly.

"Because you're supposed to be the boringly sane one of us! The next time someone asks you to go outside while nearby somebody is gathering two of all living creatures, _maybe_ try to discourage them." Sherlock shook his dark head, where his locks were drenched and it lasted all of three seconds before they were in the same state as before. It was ridiculous and adorable, so John did the only reasonable thing left to do, which was to pull his head down by his scarf and kiss him. The fight left Sherlock immediately and he became pliant and amenable, melting into the kiss and crowding John. There was no wall to push him up against, but Sherlock crossed his arms tightly behind John's back to push them closer together.

"Let's get you out of the rain and those wet clothes, shall we?" John said breathlessly. Sherlock nodded heavy-lidded, his eyes fixed on John's kiss-bruised lips.

"Yes," he agreed, "Let's get naked in front of the fire. Good idea." Just the thought of it made John moan with want and hurriedly he walked back to their car which they had parked about half a mile away.

One very early morning in late October, things felt almost completely back to normal when Sherlock slid into the bed after a night spent in research. His energy levels were at their all-time average and more often than not John went to bed alone these days because Sherlock didn't need as much sleep. He was healing so well.

This morning, he slipped in behind John when the light was only slightly still tinted by night. He snuggled up close to John's warm body and wrapped his own tightly around the smaller one, using him more as a radiator than for comfort. He pressed his flat palm against John's sternum and dipped his head to kiss him between the scapulae. He couldn't see it, but John was smiling sleepily.

"Morning," John whispered, his voice rough with sleep. Sherlock hummed happily and bestowed another kiss onto his sleep-warm skin. John shivered in his arms. "Urgh, you're cold," he scolded softly but instead of flinching again, he pushed himself arse first more closely into Sherlock.

"The fire went out," Sherlock explained. Initially, he had left the lounge because he had felt tired. But now that John was waking and hot and smelling deliciously like sleep and himself and was so soft and pliant against him, his tiredness was completely gone. He pushed his pelvis against John's arse, more out of instinct than concrete thought, and kept showering his shoulders with little kisses. John hummed deep from within his chest.

"There's more wood outside, you know," he told him. John was clinging onto sleep. Like this, he felt as if he was floating on a cloud, and it was glorious. He wanted to keep it like that for as long as possible. "Could've just gone outside and got some more, lazy git."

"Hmm, but why would I do that if I can warm my hands so much more pleasantly?" Sherlock roamed said hands over John's torso, making him shiver harder and leaving behind trails that were first cold, and then felt incredibly hot. John's mouth fell open and a sound, deep and full, came out. And just like that, Sherlock was _hungry_.

"Switch positions with me," he commanded. His voice had dropped at least by a third into a register he knew was irresistible to John. Usually, because this time, John wouldn't budge.

"Nope. If you want sex, you can get it yourself. Everything you need is in the cabinet," he said, and added, for good measure, "I'm sleeping."

He felt how his statement overwhelmed Sherlock. He didn't exactly go away, but his hands stopped their roaming and he fell stiff against John. John frowned into his pillow.

"Love?" he asked tentatively. He knew better than to turn around and face Sherlock when he needed a moment to collect himself and so stayed put. But he couldn't help and try to reassure him. He interlaced his hand with one of Sherlock's still on his chest and ran his thumb along the side of his.

"It's ... just," Sherlock wanted to explain. John squeezed his hand.

"Everything you need is in the bedside table," he repeated, trying for casual but too loving in his whole body tension to fool Sherlock for a moment. Sherlock kept his one hand in John's, but did look into the drawer of the table next to him. He found lube, which he had known would be there because they had of course used it before. And he found a flat square packet, medicine by the feel of the words in Braille on it. His curiosity was peaked. He took the small box and read the description.

John had turned his head in the meantime to muster him. When Sherlock was silent for too long seconds, he started explaining.

"A rep has left them in my office. It's a new brand, generic, but the same ingredients. Well, you know what a generic drug is. I, erm, thought we might want to try them. That is, if you're okay. With it." He was stuttering and reconsidering the reasoning that has made him bring the box in the first place. At that time it had seemed like a good idea, but not so much so now, especially now that he knew of Sherlock's history with the drugs and how the had made him feel them. John cursed himself for forgetting that even for a moment. He should've got rid of the pills after Sherlock had confided in him, told him about how he felt they were overriding his mind's commands.

"Sorry. That was stupid of me. Forget I brought it up, please," he apologised quickly. But Sherlock nodded. He was still a little out, but he nodded. He popped one of the pills free of their blister and looked at it instead of at John.

"One?" he asked.

"You don't have to. If you'd rather not. I'd totally understand." John had turned fully around and the movement made Sherlock lock eyes with him. John saw how the simple eye contact finally gave him back his confidence and how something like determination came to life in Sherlock's eyes. He wanted it.

"Aren't they usually blue? I seem to recall something like that," he joked just before he swallowed the little, yellowish pill dry.

"Are you sure?" John felt like this was completely wrong of him. But Sherlock cut his worry right off.

"Stop thinking and turn around so I can show you how sure I am," he growled in that sexy voice of his. John smiled relieved and turned back around until he faced the window.

"Generic drug, remember? There's a patent on the exact shade of blue somewhere, probably." He pushed his arse back into Sherlock's pelvis. Sherlock's beginning erection had faded completely in the last minute, but he didn't let that stop him. His hands started roaming again, inching under the hem of John's shirt to touch his skin.

"How long?" he whispered into John's ear and while he was there, he bit into his ear lobe lightly, tugging at it with his teeth while his hot breath ghosted over the sensitive skin around it. John shook violently and groaned.

"20 minutes to half an hour," he said, voice once more rough, but not from sleep this time. Sherlock hummed appreciatively.

"Just enough time, then," he said suggestively. John wanted to ask _time for what_, but the question was rendered moot when Sherlock rid him of his pants and shirt within seconds. They were both naked now. Once more Sherlock began kissing John's shoulders and back while his hand ran along any lines they could follow on John's front. He only did that for as short as it took to relax them both completely, then he took John's leg and shifted it so that his knee was pointing towards his head. Opening him up for Sherlock's hand.

He grabbed behind him and searched for the bottle of lube. He found it and poured some of it onto the tips of his fingers, then rubbed his fingers together a few seconds to warm the liquid. When he was done with it, he finally brought his fingers to John's arse. But instead of applying it where he would need it later, he ran his fingers up and down along the crack, smearing the lube everywhere. After a while, he went to get even more, until John laughed softly.

"Do you want me to drown in the stuff, or what are you planning?" he said. His voice was just a little hitched, betraying his arousal and the anticipation he wanted to hide behind humour. As punishment, Sherlock bit his shoulder. The sound John made made it clear it wasn't taken as any kind of punishment. John was rather … _bitey_ himself.

"You'll thank me," Sherlock said and went on his business undisturbed. He knew what he was doing, John had to admit. He felt himself relax and longing for more pressure, pushing relentlessly into Sherlock's fingers. But then again, John had done it to him a few times, so of course Sherlock would know what worked best.

Sherlock massaged John's arse more than anything, and with gentle pressure, his fingers slid over his skin. It was this pressure helped by the abundance of lube, that made his finger slip into the hole when it passed. Naturally. He let his finger go as deep as it would, a centimetre the first time, a little deeper the second. It took five minutes, but then his finger, which was admittedly large, was in John up to the second knuckle to no discomfort at all for the smaller man.

"You really are a genius," John said. He turned his head and sought Sherlock's lips for a kiss. It wasn't a comfortable position, but he needed it right now. Sherlock used the distraction to start the process anew, only with two fingers this time. John moaned into his mouth.

"God, I want you so much," he muttered, tearing away to pant for breath. "How much longer?"

"You're not even half way there, my love," Sherlock laughed. He poured more lube. John recognised the moves, marvelled at what they felt like applied to him this time around. The only difference, really, was that Sherlock was doing it much slower and with more patience. He was buying them time. For John, because it was the first time for him which of course he knew even if they had never discussed it. And for himself because John felt him grow more comfortable, more confident with every passing second. As if he was working himself up, and quite literally, too, going by the increasing pressure John felt his cock exerting against John's hip. Normally, when Sherlock was aroused he lost everything around him and could only concentrate on the feeling in his lower half, but this time, he stayed more grounded. John could feel him concentrate all of his considerable attention on making John feel good and forgetting his worries about getting and maintaining an erection. Not that he needed have worried about that, because by the time he deemed John open and ready, his penis was flushed dark read, almost violet, and hard against his belly. It was time.

Sherlock turned John onto his back. John, his mind in another sphere, looked up at him dumb.

"Wh, what?" he asked and whined when Sherlock withdrew his fingers. Sherlock positioned himself over him and smiled down at John in what would have been infuriatingly _indulging_ in other circumstances.

"I want to look at your face, when I'm," he missed a beat here, "penetrating you," he said. John smiled at him too understanding. His gaze dropped to Sherlock's cock and that smile was replaced by a smug smirk.

"Told you all you need is there," he said way too pleased with himself. The eyeroll Sherlock gave him for that was only execute half-heartedly at best. John chuckled happily. Sherlock sat back and took John's calves one by one and placed them on his shoulders.

"That's new," John muttered.

"Trust me," Sherlock said. With strong hands, he grabbed John's hips and pulled him closer until his arse was on his knees. He lined up, with a last detour to the lube.

"Always," John said. Sherlock forgot what he was doing for a moment and stared at John with eyes that had been made wide by surprise and not only arousal. John's heart beat a bit faster when he realised it was because he hadn't believed John would trust him like this. John gave an impatient thrust with his hips and laid his hand on top of the one hand Sherlock still had on him.

"Get on with it," he told him. Sherlock shook his head to free it from all unnecessary thoughts and got on with it.

His cock slipped in the first inch without any resistance. John was tight and hot, so very, very hot, around him, and he just got tighter and hotter with every centimetre. Sherlock closed his eyes almost in pain, drew back and plunged in again. Two inches. John groaned indecently, but without a trace of pain or discomfort in his voice.

"Oh my God, you're," he said but couldn't find the right word to end his sentence. Sherlock gained another half inch and John became louder. He wasn't normally so vocal during sex, but then he had never done it like this and it was fast proving to be one of his favourite positions. Sherlock in him was unbelievable. He felt invaded, but in a good way. He was so thick, filling John so perfectly, fitting into him as if by design. It shouldn't have come as a surprise when it has been this way since day one in every aspect of their lives, too, but it did.

John didn't even notice that Sherlock was operating almost on auto pilot over him until he did. His face was screwed up in concentration as he went in and out of him, sliding deeper with each time. It was obvious he was getting lost in the feelings.

"Hey, look at me," John called to him through the fog. He gave a few more thrusts before the meaning of the words really reached his brain and he opened his eyes with great effort. They focussed on John's face, a metre away. John knew that his face still showed all the pleasure he was feeling, but that even so he wasn't able to hide the worry that had crept into him.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock almost yelled at him and came to a haltering stop deep within John. John moaned and closed his own eyes for a second.

"Yeah. Yeah. Couldn't be better," he said then. "You said, you said you wanted to look at me. Look at me," he told him. And Sherlock did. He saw John's face and his big eyes that were almost all black in this moment with only a thin ring of dark blue around the pupils. He saw his lips that were dry because they hadn't been kissed in _ages_ and Sherlock saw the deep red flush of his chest where sweat was pooling in the hollows that he wanted to dip his tongue in. His eyes went farther down to where he could see his own cock buried so deep in John and he felt a new wave of arousal wash over him, that made his cock swell that bit more and heard the sharp intake of air that told him John could feel it, too. His eyes snapped up again to John's face and John could only imagine what he found there as his face melted into an almost comical expression of love.

And he started moving again. But it was all different now. Now, it was all about John. Sherlock angled his hips and snapped them forward until he found the one angle that was just right, that allowed him to stroke over John's prostate and made it still more pleasurable for a while.

So very carefully, Sherlock lowered the man's legs from his shoulders and guided them around his waist. Tenderly and making sure he didn't accidentally slip out, he lay down on top of John, holding his weight on his elbows to let John feel only a warm shadow of it. And he looked into his eyes. For a moment, that was all they did, look into each other's eyes. Sherlock began moving again, slower and softer than before, the position not allowing for as much depth as before, but it didn't matter, because John enjoyed it just as much and that was what Sherlock was going for. Sherlock didn't even blink and John, too, tried (and failed, sometimes) to keep his eyes open. Without asking first, Sherlock took hold of John's cock which made John moan loudly. He stroked him gently and slowly before he picked up speed. Every now and then John's eyes strayed downwards to watch the large hand on his prick, but they always came back to fix on Sherlock's gaze soon enough. Sherlock never looked anywhere else.

John felt this orgasm approaching and clenched his arse tightly, unwilling to let Sherlock slip out. As if sensing what he most needed, Sherlock got faster, his cock and his hand, and then John really pressed down on him and a shudder went through his body, and the penis in Sherlock's hand pulsated and hot ejaculate spilled out and only then did he let himself get lost again and within three more strokes he came deep within John and collapsed on his body.

It was minutes before John pushed at him to get up to give him room to breathe more freely. They stuck together held by the glue of sweat and John's come and John laughed.

"That was," he said. Again he couldn't find the right words to end the statement.

"Indeed," Sherlock agreed. They were lying shoulder to shoulder on the big bed, their breathing still not back to normal. John took his hand. He felt too disgusting in his sweat and bodily fluids everywhere to cuddle, but he wanted the contact.

"I understand now," Sherlock blurted out out of blue. "What you were saying. About... everything." John turned his head to muster him. He caught Sherlock's eye and smiled.

"Knew you'd get there eventually," he said tiredly and closed his eyes. It was still early enough to sleep another hour, he mused.

November 2014

As was common these days, they didn't even bother with easing into a new topic of conversation.

"Do you want to have children?" Sherlock asked. John would have liked to never breach that specific topic, and he was this close to telling Sherlock to shut up, but common sense told him that he had only three months left before he had to have decided on a strategy.

"One. Singular," he started his reply. Then he stopped short, because he didn't have anything else to add.

"You mean the one that is already in production," Sherlock stated, he didn't ask. It was his tone of voice more than his choice of words that told John how _he_ thought about the topic. It made John angry. He hadn't planned things the way they ultimately went, but he felt like he was blamed for them either way.

"That's the one," he replied curtly. John was a master of the art of sipping his tea angrily, and he displayed his not inconsiderate skill now. Sherlock, in turn displaying his skill of reading _John_, gave him a moment to cool down.

"That's not what I meant," he said afterwards.

"Then what the hell _did_ you mean?" John demanded of him.

"I have eight different plans on how to handle the Mary situation, but each is dependent on your level of attachment to the child. If you tell me how much you want the child, I can tell you what to do." That his words were severely mischosen, Sherlock only realised when John threw his mug against the wall. He flinched from the sound.

"Christ, Sherlock! That's my kid you're talking about!" He stormed out of the room and into the bedroom where he gathered his coat and boots to flee, like always when he was upset, before he noticed the shower outside. He stopped. Going out now would be dangerous, the fog made it too easy to lose your way and the rain would only aid in losing your step. He was trapped here. While he was still thus indecisive about how to get away, he heard Sherlock coming into the room behind him.

"It's raining," Sherlock said quietly.

"Obviously," John mocked coldly. Sherlock hesitated before his next words.

"John?" he asked quietly.

"I'm sick of having to tell you where you went wrong all the time. This is _my child_, do you really not understand that?"

Sherlock sat down, but he was only crouching on the edge of the bed.

"I never wanted children," he confessed. John snorted because that much was clear. He kept facing the window since it was his only way of escaping the situation.

"My mother used to love her work, but she gave it all up when Mycroft was born. She never complained about it. I resented her for it. How can you give up what you love to raise ungrateful children that can't wait to get away from you? I never believed that she didn't secretly hate us, never. She never showed any signs of it, but I thought I saw through her. That she couldn't hide from _me_."

"And now?" Finally, John had turned around. He had come closer until he stood in front of Sherlock.

"I get it now," Sherlock said. He raised his head until their eyes met and then he shrugged, helplessly. "I _get_ it. There are things that are more important than the work. But they're only more important because _you_ made them so. _You_ chose to put them above everything else. That's why you don't hate it, because you decided that it is what comes first. Just like you once decided it was the work. You just swap one passion for the other. It doesn't mean you'll never miss it, but it means you love the new thing even more."

He held John's gaze and John had to clear his throat, loudly.

"Is that how you feel about the baby?" he asked.

"That is how I feel about you," Sherlock told him as if he was the stupidest man in the world for needing it spelled out.

John actually had a very thorough understanding of the situation and Sherlock was secretly impressed with his foresight as he lay out the facts.

"My wife's a killer. No point in sweet-talking it. There are people out there who know what she's done, who _will_ come after her. She's been hiding, successfully, for five years. It's easy to hide in a big city. But she's married to me now, and I'm always associated with you and you're a minor celebrity. Realistically speaking, one to three years before she's found out. She's likely well-connected and will go into hiding somewhere else before it comes so far. So that leaves me with the baby before it even starts school."

"Very likely, yes."

"But."

"Good, John. Yes?"

"You're a minor celebrity and I'm always associated with you. Become my wife, and you will end up in the tabloids at one point or another. It doesn't take a genius to see that, and she is one. She's clever."

"Very good. Go on."

"So she will be found out. Why take the risk? Unless. Unless she's not. Taking a risk. Unless she never planned to stick around long enough to end up with her face in the papers."

"Why would she do that?"

"Because it's her job. Get to me, you get to you. She's been planted on me to lure you out." John's eyes shot up to Sherlock's in realisation. He was worried sick all of a sudden. "She almost killed you once. It was sheer luck you've survived. Why would she do that?"

"To gain our trust. Show us that she is perfectly able to kill me in the blink of an eye, but that when push came to shove, she chose not to. It's clever. You mistrust her, but subconsciously you don't believe she would ever hurt you like that. Predators do that. They show you a weakness so you won't go looking for another one."

"I'll never trust her again."

"Why's that?" John shot him a blank look, silently telling Sherlock that vanity didn't suit him. Sherlock let it go. "In any case, you don't have to. You only have to pretend."

"I'm a bad actor, remember? The reason you let me believe you were dead for 28 months?"

"It's easier this time. You don't have to pretend to have forgiven her, all you need to do is to act as if you are _trying_ to. You're struggling. Anything else she wouldn't believe either way. When you accidentally get angry with her, it actually works in our favour."

"Just to be clear, you want me to go back to her?"

"Just long enough to ensure the safety of your baby."

"What happens afterwards?"

Sherlock paused delicately. "Do you really want to know?" John thought about it. "Yes," he said solidly.

"Mycroft will deal with her. Best case scenario, he will exchange her for one of our captured spies. Who knows what happens after. Worst case…" he trailed off to clear his throat. "My brother is very protective of the people he cherishes. The only reason she is still walking free is because he knows I'd never forgive him if anything happened to your baby. Once that is dealt with, there's absolutely no telling what he will do to her."

It wasn't easy to hear. For John, even though he had nothing but hate left in him for his wife, he remembered too well the love the hate had replaced. He didn't feel sorry for her, but he did feel sorry for the woman he had married. For Mary Morstan. Not for whoever she really was.

He nodded once. Resolutely. Now they were playing for his child and the future he would build for it with Sherlock.

"When- how do we start?"

"It already has started. The game is on."

Epilogue

A month later saw them back in Baker Street. Everything felt different in London, because everything felt real. They could pretend nothing had happened while in Scotland, but in London, John actually saw Mary. Proof she was real and proof that everything had indeed happened the way he remembered.

He wanted to go on pretending that phase in his life had never existed and Baker Street was his safe haven. He came back home one day in November and for a moment, he could make himself believe it even. Everything was strikingly unchanged. The lounge was a mess of old papers and magazines and Sherlock sat hunched over his laptop in the kitchen, microscope and a fuckton of chemical equipment next to him. John went over to him and pressed a kiss into the back of his neck. Sherlock grunted and held a piece of paper out for him. John sighed and scanned it. It seemed the honeymoon phase was truly over.

"What am I looking at?" he asked with a frown. There wasn't much on the paper, a few chemical formulas, percentages, a graph, not a lot.

"You tell me," Sherlock said coldly. John tilted his head as if that would help him in evaluating the stuff.

"Okay," he said. He could do that. He was after all a doctor with a good grasp of chemistry. "Erm. Cellulose. And this, is this food dye? So, yeah, nothing much really. Coloured powder." During those few words Sherlock's look had grown darker. He was crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at John.

"As a doctor," he started saying with something like accusation, "for what would you prescribe that to one of your patients?" John grew concerned at his tone but couldn't place why he would bring it up like this.

"Is this for a case?" he asked, trying to remember if Sherlock had mentioned something.

"Nope," Sherlock informed him. John waited a second.

"Erm, I'd give this to a hypochondriac. This is placebo, you know. Of course you know. Where is this coming from, if it's not for a case?" Sherlock hurled a small box at him. John caught it and his heart sank. "Ah," he said. It was Sherlock's pills.

"Did you know?" Sherlock asked. He didn't wait for an answer, of course John knew. He jumped up from his chair and ran to the lounge to sulk on the sofa. "This is humiliating," he mumbled into the cushions. John trailed behind him slowly.

"Look," he started but was interrupted by Sherlock's humpf.

"Where did you even get those? Those come in the real packaging, highly professional. You can't just buy them in a shop, those were manufactured for you." Sherlock's face fell. He looked mortified.

"You wouldn't!" he spit out.

"Sherlock," John said soothingly. He had sat down on the table and didn't dare to touch his partner. But somewhere deep inside him, he found this rather funny. He tried to smother the mirth quietly.

"Where, John?" Sherlock pressed dangerously.

"I'd rather not say," John confessed. Sherlock's eyes grew huge with horror. He flopped back onto his side and hid in the sofa.

"I'll have to kill him," he mumbled. "And you'll have to explain to mummy why I did it. She won't be pleased."

"Okay. Before you bring out the harpoon, let's look at this realistically, yes? We both know that your impotence has no physical causes." Over time John had learned not to sweetmouth it and call Sherlock's problem by its name. It was the only way to show him that it wasn't really all that important. "And psychological impotence reacts amazingly to placebos. I didn't want to pump you full of chemicals you didn't need, so I asked... around... and they helped! Sherlock. You can't deny that." They had indeed. Over the last month they had gone through almost two boxes of the stuff and not once had Sherlock had reason to believe that he was really just eating cellulose and yellow dye. Sherlock winced in shame.

"But Mycroft?" he whined.

"Look, for all he knows, we didn't even use them," John tried. Sherlock shot him a dirty glare.

"Of course he knows," he said. "Mycroft _always_ knows."

A/N

John tells Sherlock on the tarmac that "[t]he game is over". To me, that sounds like code. I believe that we will see them conspiring in a flash back in S4 and that the words "The game is on" will be uttered. Thus the title of this fic.

I'm aware that with how this story ends (if you ignore the epilogue, which frankly is too light-hearted but I liked it so I kept it) this reads like the first part of something bigger. Alas, since I envisioned the story as a kind of fill-in-the-blanks it really ends here until we have S4 at least. I'm not creative enough to make up what is going to happen.

Lastly, throughout all chapters I kept mentioning "The Great Lube Experiment of 2011". This really did happen. It's a very long depiction of John and Sherlock fooling around with 12 different brands of lube. When I wrote it, it read too funny and too light-hearted to be kept in this angst-ridden story, so it got cut. But since it's 6000 words of sticky porn and I'm rather fond of it, I will publish it next week as a separate fic! So keep your eyes open for it if you want to read more from this universe.

I want to thank everyone who has read so far and/or left comments and kudos. I've started writing this shortly after S3 ended, writing at work mostly when the muse struck me in the middle of the day and on rainy Sundays and am already missing working on it. Just to see it finally come to life is a reward, but when I saw how much people liked my work, it floored me, it really did. I woke up every Monday to my phone happily blinking with notifications about new comments, messages and tumblr followers. I love you guys, it really made starting the new week so much easier and I will miss that, too. You are all awesome. Your encouragement is why people keep writing stories.


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